


Settling/Unsettling

by FleetingDesires



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Anthea (Sherlock) is the Best PA, Character Study, Cheating, Coitus Interruptus, Gratuitous Poetry, Introspection, M/M, Manipulative Mycroft Holmes, Possessive Sherlock, Rough Sex, Sibling Incest, Temporarily Unrequited Love, goldfish everywhere, holmescest, poetry smut? lol sorry, vague comparison of Sherlock to Duchess Camilla
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-04
Updated: 2021-01-17
Packaged: 2021-03-06 01:53:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 28,879
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25705429
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FleetingDesires/pseuds/FleetingDesires
Summary: Mycroft loves the one man he cannot have - his brother. It doesn’t help that their relationship is tattered beyond recognition. When Gregory Lestrade enters his life, he is pleasantly surprised to find that the man is satisfactory, both in and out of bed. If he can't have the one man he wants, he may as well settle for second best.But what happens when events draw the brothers closer together, and the impossible becomes probable?
Relationships: Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade (Mentioned), Mycroft Holmes/Sherlock Holmes
Comments: 39
Kudos: 80





	1. Unsettled (Prequel)

**Author's Note:**

> This plot has been brewing at the back of my mind ever since I finished 'An Anniversary to Remember'. At the time of posting this first chapter, only about 30% of it has been written - but I couldn't wait to get it out there!

He is 25 when his career ambitions instantaneously morph from arrogant vanity to an absolute imperative.

To be in love with one’s own brother is a fate suffered primarily by the gods - so he supposes he is justified in feeling like a god in a world of goldfish. Still, it is unsettling to come home after three long years in America to discover an enigmatic stranger claiming to be his baby brother. A stranger with the weight of history and fraternal love, impossibly entwined with a novelty of physicality and attitude that conjures up parallel fantasies of a rough fucking to reduce that insolent mouth to monosyllables, or a gentle love-making to spoil and cherish the brother, the mind, he has so terribly missed.

In an instant his world tilts on its axis; everything is moved a few degrees to the left to make way for a new door in his mind palace. Heaven only knows what’s happened to his mental filing cabinets from this unexpected renovation - are all the papers on the floor? How long will he need to pack up the mess in his mind? - but in this moment, Mycroft can’t find it in himself to care. Instead, he sets to painting a full portrait of new-Sherlock: the angular lines of his new form, the haughty bearing, the ever-present sneer of delectable cupid-bow lips, the caustic, incandescent wit, the curls atop his head begging to be tugged into submission, or into its owner’s submission, sea-green eyes that pierce through his soul—

He blinks, and raises a questioning brow. He is met with a signature sneer, but as those eyes are now trained on the plate in front of him and not on his face, he’ll call it a win as he continues work on his Sherlock portrait.

By the time dinner is concluded, the life-sized portrait hangs in full view of the entrance to his mind palace. Each brush stroke, when touched or examined, brings on the associated moment at which it was applied. He idly wonders if mind palace paintings suffer the same degradation as a real painting would if repeatedly touched. He knows he’ll find out, in due course.

Midnight finds Mycroft sitting upright in his bed. He has spent the last few hours re-organising his mind palace; the mess is not so substantial, and he feels a pang of pride at his mental filing system that can withstand such a substantial shock. Standing in front of the new room, he feels a thrill on his spine as he carefully imprints on the door’s plaque: _The Seduction of Sherlock Holmes_.

Inside, he sets it up as a war room: there is a large table in the middle, perfect for spreading out papers and books; on the far end hangs a cork board; large bookshelves appear to line the remainder of the wall space. He sets up a library specially geared towards the intersection of Sherlock and seduction. Calling up the table, he makes one small change and designates _000 - Sherlock_ ; fills the section with papers copied from Sherlock’s room. Under _100 - Philosophy and psychology_ , he fills it with what pithy information he has on the psychology of romance and incest, philosophies of war and metaphysics. He works in this way down the line, not so much purloining information from the other rooms so much as making fresh copies for special use.

Looking around at the space, he can now tell at a glance what he needs more information on, where his weaknesses are, and this helps him to form a shadow of a battle plan. He knows now that his plan will take years to reach its culmination - but Mycroft is nothing if not a driven man. He sees that through all variations of his plan, one thing is a constant. He must accumulate enough power to protect his brother in the intervening years, as well as protect them from the legal consequences, should any arise. How fortuitous, then, that his ambition to be the foremost spymaster in this country would serve those purposes nicely. Now, his to live and learn and act and enact, and for others not to question why.

***

He does not foresee that Sherlock would throw himself into drugs and squalor. He does not foresee that their brotherly relationship would disintegrate further, until a mere thread named _genetics_ is all that binds them together. Only the fact that they share 50% of their DNA would have Sherlock in his life, and nothing else. There are many more frayed and torn threads that never connect, threads of _love_ and _memories_ and _gnawing concern_ and _mine_. Threads that emanate from Mycroft but dangle in the ether, unacknowledged by and unknown to their recipient.

The war room grows dusty with disuse, as Mycroft hangs a tapestry to conceal the door. He need not be reminded of his failure or of the abject cruelty of the universe every time he steps into his mind. Only one reminder is left, as he can’t bear to shove the Sherlock portrait through that door. It now sits on the floor in front of the door, with Mycroft spending endless nights caressing that face and recalling memories of the day representing the heights of his hopefulness. It turns out that mind palace paintings do not degrade as they do in reality, or maybe that’s just a perk of his eidetic memory.


	2. Settling

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 1 alone completely misses the brief. So here's Chapter 2 mere hours after posting!

When Gregory Lestrade enters Sherlock's life, Mycroft sees a glimmer of hope. It takes an inordinate amount of time, but his junkie brother finally manages to kick the habit, in favour of his new addiction to police cases. His words, though still harsh and cutting, are again underlined by the light of his caustic wit. At this point, Mycroft will take anything Sherlock can throw at him just to see that brilliant mind no longer dimmed by drugs.

For a man so insolent and rude, Mycroft wonders at how Sherlock is able to hang on to his relationships. How does Lestrade or John cope with his constant abuse? How is Sherlock able to suffer having an ordinary goldfish as a flatmate, and further go on to thrive? He was thankful to witness some shred of humanity still existing within his brother, some sign that he will not turn out to be like Eurus.

The months he spends with Sherlock devising plans to end Moriarty were some of the best of his life. Working together for nights on end is reminiscent of the carefree days of their childhood, spent in the library imagining outlandish contraptions while Eurus was off somewhere, probably murdering the local wildlife. Still, those moments alone had kept him going for all these years, and now he has fresh memories to relive once the status quo of acrimony has been reestablished. 

When Sherlock leapt off that accursed roof, calling into play their emergency plan, Mycroft despairs. Acrimony he is used to; having to be his brother's handler as he sets off on a quasi-suicidal mission is nothing short of maddening. At the airport, seeing Sherlock with hair shorn free of its curls, raven turning into gold, he had only one thought: _I love you. Come back to me. I love you._ Mycroft has to lock his arms into his body to prevent himself from gathering Sherlock into himself and not let go.

It doesn't take long before the fool comes calling. Mycroft can see the guilt written all over Lestrade's face, and yet, he cannot help but to care; apparently, Mycroft is to be the recipient of that sentiment. Over time, Lestrade proves to be a satisfactory companion, both in and out of bed. He can see the man falling in love with him, though his flirtations were not intentionally designed to ensnare him so. It seems he has made the small error of judgment in not realising how desperate the man is to be loved and to be in love, and has latched on to any scrap of affection Mycroft deemed timely to throw his way to keep him on the line.

A few months in, in the afterglow, Lestrade mutters into his chest, _I know you don’t do sentiment, but I just have to tell you that I love you. I’ve never felt this way before. You don’t have to feel pressured, I just wanted to let you know that you are loved._

He doesn’t respond immediately. He takes a few days to consider the implications of do’s and do not’s - where they will lead, what expectations will be placed at his feet. Coming to a decision, he acts the part of the emotionally constipated spymaster - on his return from an “emergency international trip” (he’s just stayed for three nights at his country estate - why suffer a flight if an absence is all that is required?), he goes to Lestrade like a man rushed off his feet, whispering, _If love is evidenced by the hole in my chest when I am apart from you, if love causes me to worry constantly about you, if love wants the beloved to only be healthy and happy, and nothing more, then I love you, too._ Lestrade never sees the pained expression on the face on his shoulder.

As he is fucked face-first on his bed that night, in a rhythm designed to drive him out of his mind, Lestrade never notices that Mycroft’s eyes are closed, or that his lover’s hands are gripping the sheets around him and not his body. And when he finally notices at the end of the night that Mycroft is crying softly, he never had sufficient data to deduce that the tears were not shed for him.

He marries Lestrade about a year into Sherlock’s absence - it is in secret, for no one to know but them. Lestrade thinks it’s for security reasons, but really, Mycroft just does not want the world ( _no, just one person in the world_ ) to know. If he does not have to perform the relationship in public, he will not be forced to carve the heart from his own chest by doing so in front of Sherlock when he returns home.

He does it primarily for the benefit of compelling Lestrade to stay by his side - the man will be angry to find out that the Holmes brothers have been hiding the truth from him, but he will unquestioningly abide by the rules of marriage: till death do we part, through thick and thin, and all of the rest of the traditional vows that Mycroft blindly repeated. Mycroft knows that he will be broken by having to spend his life alone, and so the marriage is but a practical solution, claiming Lestrade as his own for a shadow of comfort. Every _I love you_ is a flawless lie, but it is not one that Lestrade is emotionally or intellectually equipped to discern. _Needs must_ , he thinks with a mental shrug, and as long as Lestrade is kept content, he cares not for the methods he employs to that end.

He buys Lestrade a ring that can pass for a fashion statement - the Bvlgari B.zero1 in black and gold does the job. Ambiguous enough to lie about it, even if it is strange to wear it on the ring finger. He does not wear one himself, saying _what is the point of a secret marriage if I announce it with a ring? I am truly sorry, Gregory_. He moves Lestrade into his fuck pad in Belgravia that Lestrade believes to have been his primary residence. He spends two nights a week there, while the remainder of his nights in London are spent at his home in Kensington, which Lestrade never sees: it contains his favourite possessions, his baby grand piano, a fully secured home office, and a bed that will never be shared with anyone else but smells of Sherlock’s cologne.

The household staff never question the eccentricity of this order, only ensuring a stock of the scent in the cleaning cupboard. They don’t question why there is a room that has not been used in years, with an ensuite containing the same cologne behind the mirror.With each rotation of new drivers, Anthea distributes a memo that “home” has different destinations depending on whether Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade is in the car. The drivers do not question this either - they have turned a blind eye to far tawdrier things than a man maintaining a secret residence from his husband.


	3. Unsettling, pt. 1

On days that he receives the rare missive from Sherlock, advising of his location and movements, Anthea knows to send him home early. He sits at his piano, composing to the early hours, trying to work out his frustrations, his worry, his love. He doesn't need sheet music to remember the notes, but he writes them down anyway, in order to have some physical proof, _something concrete and real_ that he can hold on to with his hands, instead of the time and space that he can feel slipping away.

By the time Sherlock returns, he has written a binder full of music. And still, it pours forth, out of his heart and hands and into the safe behind his desk. He takes his favourite pieces and arranges them into a coherent structure, calling it the Sherlock Suite. Trite, but there is no one to judge him for it.

On the plane home from Serbia, he plays it on his phone as a lullaby for Sherlock, who is too shaken to think too deeply about the pieces. The phone is tucked away as the plane lands and the Belstaff is shrugged on. Before he leaves, he gives Sherlock a card, with the codes for his Kensington home. _Your room will always be ready for you. If you wish not to be alone, I will be there once I have attended to business._

Not that it comes as a surprise, but Mycroft is still gratified to be proven right. So little these days go exactly to plan, but Gregory Lestrade proves almost boringly predictable. There is all the predicted hurt and anger from Lestrade, though he did not foresee returning to a whiskey glass chucked at his head that first night. Nevertheless, Mycroft does not grovel or beg forgiveness. He simply explains in a level tone, _It was for your safety. It was for his safety. There was nothing else to be done._ Lestrade eventually calms down and lets Mycroft put him to bed. Before the lights go out, he promises that he will try and understand, and that their marriage means more to him than this lie.

Mycroft slips out five minutes later, and heads for Kensington. As the car approaches, he sees that the lights are blazing in the house, and he allows himself a small smile. _Home at last._ He doesn't mind that as soon as he steps through the front door, he hears another one slamming shut.

Mycroft is sound asleep when his subconscious raises the alarm. His eyes snap open and he unthinkingly goes to subdue the disturbance in his bed. He is surprised to find his hands and thighs pinned down, and immediately relaxes when he realises that it is Sherlock pressing him down into the bed.

"It's only me, brother."

"What are you doing?"

Sherlock releases him, and flops on the bed. "I can't…I can't sleep well. I thought this may help."

Mycroft blinks into space, hoping that the sound of his pounding heart can't be heard. _Don't be dramatic, Mycroft, of course not,_ his brain helpfully supplies. "Of course. Just don't hog the blanket. Goodnight, Sherlock." He closes his eyes and breathes deeply, willing his riotous body to calm down.

Sherlock shifts around to find a comfortable position, but after a few moments, he says, "Why does your bed smell like me?"

 _Oh lord._ "Does it?" He says nonchalantly, giving a fake inquisitive sniff of the sheets. "I was so tired I hardly noticed. I had asked the staff to spray your cologne on _your_ bed as I thought it may help you to have a familiar scent. They must have gotten it mixed up."

"Hmm. The standards of household help have slipped in these two years."

"Yes, good help is increasingly hard to find," Mycroft drawled.

The brothers fall back into silence for a while, before Sherlock curls up on to his side, dropping his head to Mycroft's shoulder. He falls asleep within moments in this position. Mycroft fights off sleep for the fantasy that this is a regular occurrence, but he eventually passes out as well, his cheek resting upon raven curls.

***

The years pass, with the two weeks Sherlock spent in Mycroft's bed going undiscussed, when things come to a head during the events of Sherrinford. He drops the mask, presenting his heart to Sherlock in the moments he believed he would not have to face the consequences of a lifetime of unrequited love - and yet, he couldn’t bear to die and leave it unexpressed.

As Sherlock aims the gun towards him, his mind races through all their wretched history, trying, for the last time, to determine when it all went wrong, when he could have done better, when there might have been the slightest chance for reconciliation and love. He spares a fleeting moment of thought for Gregory - foolishly loyal to a man he didn’t really know, in the end. In the will, he’ll get their Belgravia flat and an inheritance to sustain it as recompense, but the rest of it is for Sherlock. He has left him a letter. He hopes to be forgiven.

He takes a breath, and retreats into his mind palace. He caresses his Sherlock portrait for the last time. _I am sorry, brother. I am so sorry there is not enough time._ He tears down the tapestry to step into that long-neglected room, brushes his fingertips across the spines on the bookshelves, across the papers on the table. Thoughts half-formed and abandoned when his brother succumbed to the allure of heroin and cocaine.

He comes back to reality, but can it be called reality when it is so unreal? He told Sherlock to aim for his heart, and so he aimed it at his own head. Even if he were the type of man to forget, he would never forget the sheer terror of those few moments, afraid to yell for fear of Sherlock prematurely jerking the trigger. _I love you, I love you, please don't do this my love, you may as well kill me first so we don't both have to die. SHERLOCK!_

***

He is back in Kensington before he knows it, the hours passing in a blur of terror and debriefings. Lestrade calls him, but as soon as he hears further confirmation that Sherlock is alive, he interrupts. "I am fine. I just need some time alone; I will call you when I am ready. Have a good night, Gregory." He hangs up, and turns his phone off in the process.

For the first time in recent memory, his mind is hazy and muddled. He stands under the hot spray of his shower until the pads of his fingers turn wrinkly, unable to shift his thoughts away from the abject terror he felt at the sight of Sherlock turning the gun on himself.

He finally crawls into bed after an unknown period of time, focusing on the fact that Sherlock is still breathing London air, and praying to a god he doesn't believe in for the sweet oblivion of a deep sleep.

He wakes curled around a warm body, and for a moment, he is confused. Prior experience tells him that it is Lestrade he is wrapped around, but his arm tells him that this body is slimmer, his nose tells him that it smells like Sherlock, and his cheek rubs against the subtle cotton grain of an expensive shirt. _Not Gregory. Sherlock?_

Only when he is unable to roll away does he register the arm wrapped around his back, secured on his shoulder. Instead, he lifts his bleary eyes upward, meeting a pair of sea-green eyes. Sherlock's other hand shoots out to secure Mycroft's arm across his waist, effectively locking him into place as he instinctively tried to move again.

Too bleary and confused to protest, Mycroft drops his head back down. _This is nice. I'll just stay here for a minute._ "What are you doing?"

"You didn't let Lestrade look after you for me, so here I am to do it myself."

 _That doesn't clear up matters much. Specifically, why you've climbed into my bed again._ "You can see I'm perfectly fine. When did you get here?" _How long has my body had the pleasure of being wrapped around yours without realising it?_

"About a couple of hours after he called you, I imagine. I've been sitting here wondering why he thought you lived in Belgravia, how he knew you weren't at home, and my surprise to find a great big lump in your bed after all."

Mycroft sighed. "Perhaps we should have this discussion over a morning tea."

"No need. When were you planning to tell me you got _married_? To _Lestrade_?"

"Ah."

"Yes, a state of affairs that is most curious. Your husband doesn't know that your primary residence isn't the home you share, you have no pictures of him here, and in times of great stress you would rather be alone than return to him."

"I'm sure you can draw some accurate deductions from that set of facts, but I would prefer to confirm or deny them with some breakfast in me and without a parched mouth."

"It'll keep. Besides, I still have to figure out _why_."

 _This fantasy is fast becoming a nightmare. Deflect, deflect, deflect…_ "Why do you care?"

Sherlock is silent for a few moments before he responds. "I don't know, really. Something's changed, but I can't figure it out. Go back to sleep while I think."

"You can't just order someone back to sleep." Reluctantly, he added, "Are you going to release me, at least?"

"No. You slept better like this, and judging by the bags under your eyes, you haven't got enough recently."

Mycroft sighed and snuggled in. _If you insist._ A part of his brain is busy cataloguing everything about this moment, while he consciously wills his heart to stop pounding so fast. It doesn't work. Hecan't stop worrying that Sherlock has seen too much in those moments, has deduced his heart, and that this is but a small reprieve before he is to be torn to shreds. He tells himself, _If this is to be the last meal for a man bound for the guillotine, then I will enjoy it, and keep it safe for the decades to come. He will be alive and safe, too. That must be enough for me._

Mycroft sets to painting another portrait of Sherlock in his mind to more fully catalogue this moment, but before he can finish, Sherlock's breathing changes. Gingerly lifting his head, he sees that Sherlock has fallen asleep, looking more serene than he has been in recent memory. He tugs Sherlock down so that he is lying flat on his back, avoiding the inevitable crick in the neck from his previous sitting position. _Perfect_. He idles the next hour away perfecting his new painting by absorbing all the tiny details of the moment: how his hair falls across the pillow, the wrinkle forming between his brows, the warmth of his breath, the smell of him up close, and most importantly, this sense of contentment.

Mycroft stays in bed for as long as he can, with a hand over Sherlock's heart. Finally, he can put off nature's call no longer, and he decides that it is time to get out of bed.

***

Over breakfast, he reads Lestrade's texts, accumulated through the night: _Are you sure you're alright? I wish you'd come home. Sherlock has finally figured out our marriage. I'm sorry - I was so worried. Have you seen him?_

He quickly taps out a response. _I will be busy most of this week containing this debacle, as well as existing matters on my plate, and will be too busy to have a mental breakdown. Thank you for sending Sherlock - I do feel better having spoken to him this morning. The dear boy has finally crashed - per usual. - MH_

After a short pause, he adds: _I will probably not be home at all while I work to get this sorted. It should take no more than a week. I'm sorry Gregory - try not to worry about me. I promise to call when I can. - MH_

Through the day, he manages to keep up sporadic communications with Lestrade, between attending to his emails and arranging his upcoming schedule. It is a necessary evil of having Lestrade as a husband - the man will set the Met upon him if he is not satisfied that Mycroft is taking care of himself. While Mycroft is very capable of disappearing when he wants, best not to upset the status quo. That way a migraine lies, and Mycroft is not in the business of borrowing trouble where none is required.

Shaking his head, he sets aside his phone, husband being duly pacified, and gets back to work.

***

Mycroft is playing one of his Sherlock pieces at the piano when his brother walks into the room and leans against the piano. He waits silently for Mycroft to finish the piece.

When Mycroft finally lifted his eyes off the keys, Sherlock said, "I've heard that before. What is it? I don't recognise it as one of the classical pieces."

"I played it for you on the plane home from Serbia. It's one of my own."

"Have you titled it?"

"Yes." Mycroft waves away Sherlock's irritated glare. "I'll tell you when I feel like it. Now, you should have some dinner. I ordered enough Chinese takeaway for the both of us while you were unconscious, and there should be enough left for you."

"I'm not hungry. But," he added with a finger raised, "I will eat if you play some more for me. I trust you have more original pieces?"

After a pause, Mycroft nodded. "Very well."

Mycroft pours himself a drink while Sherlock is in the kitchen. He quickly finishes his first glass, hoping to still his shaky hand. Meanwhile, his mind is spinning a mile a minute. Mycroft has always been the orchestrator of events; he is unused to not knowing what lies ahead. Sherlock's purposes and intent are wholly unclear to him, and he has no choice but to follow along. _And he wants me to play more of his songs for him. But how can he know it is_ for _him? For a man who has never loved, can he appreciate the sentiment behind the music? Why is he still here? What does he want from me?_

All too soon, Sherlock returns with his food. Mycroft knows that he has seen the conflicted look on his face, but as he cannot do the music justice while putting up his ice mask, he decides to let it show.

Over the next hour, Mycroft plays his _Sherlock Suite_ , lifting his eyes occasionally to assess the reception from his audience. At one point, he unsuccessfully smothers a smile as he clocks the look of utter surprise on his brother's face. Still, he persists; he trips over some notes when Sherlock comes to sit next to him on the piano bench, but otherwise, he sees the thing through to its lilting end.

After a few silent moments, Mycroft lowers the lid over the keys, and spins around on the bench to lean against it. He stares at his hands in his lap as the silence drags on. _I've already laid my heart out for you to see, twice now. Do I do this because I want you to observe me, or to hide in plain sight? Or am I simply a masochist?_ Finally, he is the one to speak first. "Well, there you have it. My first suite."

Sherlock blinked. "Yes. Well done. When did you write this?"

 _"_ I arranged my favourite compositions into a suite while you were away; some of the music was cannibalised from earlier, unfinished pieces that had finally found the right expression." He smiled wryly. "I spent a lot of time composing while you were off fixing my mistakes."

Sherlock let out a deep sigh as he leaned back on one hand, tilting his head back to speak to the ceiling. "Lets not go ten rounds on our mistakes tonight. Or maybe never. We came too close to losing each other not 24 hours ago. When I pointed the gun at you, it was as if… I didn't know anymore _why_ we had been fighting all this time. What was the whole point of it, when we come to the end of the line and we'd each choose to sacrifice ourselves for the other? I have to beg your forgiveness in many things, and I'm sure you feel the same. If given the choice, I'd rather not beg."

Tilting his head back down, he fixes Mycroft with his gaze. "So what do you say, brother mine? Can we work towards letting all of that go, without recriminations, _self-_ recriminations, and apologies?"

"I–" Mycroft lets his jaw hang open as his brain scrambles for a response. "I would like nothing more. But– I– well. I'm not sure what to say. You've broken my brain. Congratulations."

"All it took was a ceasefire to achieve? Why didn't I think of this years ago?" Sherlock leapt off the bench, going to pour two glasses of whiskey. Handing one to his brother, he continued, "A piano isn't furniture, brother." He jerks his head towards the couch, taking the decanter of whiskey before settling on one end.

Mycroft settles into the other end, soaking in the silence as they nurse one drink, then another. Slowly, he finds his spine relaxing as he sinks into the couch and closes his eyes. His mind is blissfully silent, until he feels Sherlock move to sit next to him, dropping his head to his shoulder. "What is the scientific explanation for a couch feeling too wide?"

Amused, Mycroft huffs into his glass. "For one who spends half his life sprawled on one, I didn't think there could be such a thing as too wide."

"No, me neither. And yet, here I am."

In lieu of a response, Mycroft simply hummed and rested his head atop Sherlock's.

"So," Sherlock says after a while, "Now that I've gotten you cozy and liquored up, care to explain?" He traces the spot on Mycroft's hand where a wedding band would sit.

Mycroft sighed and frowned into his glass. "Let's hear your deductions first."

"From my conversation with Lestrade last night, it's clear that he's married you for love; what's curious is that it's clearly a marriage of convenience for you, but I fail to see what benefit you obtain from it."

Mycroft tips the remainder of the whiskey down his gullet, tracing the rim of the glass before he speaks. "Through marriage, I have secured his companionship. You may be surprised, but of all the goldfish in London and beyond, Lestrade is the only one who is agreeable beyond a night's dalliance."

Sherlock snorts. " _Agreeable_? Surely one should aspire to something higher than _agreeable_ in a choice of husband."

"Agreeable is more than most people achieve."

"Hmm. Point to Mycroft." Sherlock drains his own drink before setting it aside. "Why didn't you tell me? Or for that matter, anyone?"

"I spend only as much time with Gregory as he requires of me to present the image of a loving husband. That is the extent to which I am willing to act. Being public about it is an ask too much."

"Why have you signed yourself up for this chore, then?"

"Because the practicalities of human need requires it. Because I know I will never marry for love. Because aside from you, there is no one out there that is my intellectual match. Because when you went after Moriarty's network, I had a glimpse of how life would be like without anyone else in it, and I couldn't bear it. So I took what I could get, companionship from an agreeable man."

"Oh." After a beat, Sherlock suddenly sat up, blinking into the middle distance. Bemused, Mycroft could only watch on, waiting for a response. Just as abruptly, he turned to face Mycroft with a shrewd look. " _Oh_. The full picture appears, I think."

Mycroft raised a brow. "What?"

"Hang on. I need a final piece of evidence to reach a decisive conclusion." Mycroft barely had time to process the fact that Sherlock now had a hand on the back of his neck and was tilting his face forward, before he found soft lips pressed against his. Instinctively, he reached up to grip on to Sherlock's forearm, just before Sherlock pulled away. "Hmm. Yes," Sherlock said dreamily, leaning in again.


	4. Unsettling, pt. 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We earn an E rating here, and manipulative!Mycroft is out in full force.
> 
> The next update will take a while - lots going on IRL!

Confusion reigned for a split second more before Mycroft tossed it aside in favour of savouring the moment. Not much thinking was done for a while as their tongues battled for dominion, save for a few stray thoughts: _Where the hell did he learn to kiss like this? Heavens above, this is surreal._ When Sherlock swung a leg over to straddle Mycroft, he was helpless but to groan, his hands immediately going to Sherlock's hips, tugging at his shirt tails to press a hand on to the warm skin of Sherlock's back. Groaning, he cradled Sherlock's bare hips even as his head crashed against the back of the couch, as Sherlock nibbled his way towards his neck, biting down a moment before Mycroft kneaded his arse to persuade his body to press against his own.

With a scrape of teeth, Sherlock moved up to hover his face above Mycroft as he rolled his hips, grinding his erection against Mycroft's. Mycroft met it with a roll of his own, and for several moments, they breathed into each other's mouths, eyes locked on as they moved against each other. Keeping one hand on Sherlock's hip, the other moved up to thread into his hair, pulling him down into a bruising kiss.

Mycroft was dangerously close to the precipice, before he wrapped an arm around Sherlock's hip, stilling him. "You have to stop, I'm too close," he said, exhaling a shaky breath into Sherlock's shoulder.

For several long moments, they each panted into each other, struggling to regain a semblance of control. Finally, Mycroft lifted his head to look into Sherlock's eyes. "Why?"

"Because it turns out that being wanted the way you want me is a powerful aphrodisiac. I won't lie and say I've always wanted this, but I know that it's you I want taking me to bed tonight."

"Oh god." A shiver ran down Mycroft's spine. "Are you sure?"

Sherlock barked out a laugh. "Am I sure? I'm in your lap, and so hard I can barely see straight. Yes, Mycroft, I'm sure. I'm sure that I need you to fuck me into a full-body climax. Let me ride you and suck you and bite you and get my hands all over you." He growled into Mycroft's ear.

As the images flowed into his mind, Mycroft tightened his grip around Sherlock. Or his sanity. He isn't sure anymore. "You can't say things like that to me right now. Fuck." He exhaled a sharp breath. "Get up. We are moving to the bedroom. Now."

For once, Sherlock obediently complies. _Wonders never cease_. Mycroft takes a few steadying breaths before following him. As he enters the bedroom, he finds Sherlock sitting on the edge of it, spreading his legs in an inviting V.

Closing the door behind him, Mycroft leans back against it, caressing Sherlock's body with his gaze. It snags on his lips; the buttons on his shirt; the erection tenting the front of his wrinkled trousers.

Licking his lips, he instructs, "Take off your shirt. Slowly."

As Sherlock moves to comply, Mycroft mirrors his movements, unbuttoning his shirt at the same pace. He greedily take in each inch of exposed skin. When their shirts are thrown off, he stalks forward, slotting his hips in the space provided by Sherlock, running his hands up his torso, his chest, his shoulders, past scars and battle-worn skin. "Gorgeous," he says, as he threads his fingers through his hair. He gives it a firm tug. "Gorgeous, and all mine," whispering soft kisses on Sherlock as he presses him back to lie on the bed. _Please, for more than tonight_ , he thinks as he presses his lips to Sherlock's jaw.

Sherlock's hands roam his body, clutching at him whenever Mycroft accesses a sensitive spot. He learns them, files them away, bites at his earlobe when Sherlock moves to cup him through his trousers. Something shifts when Sherlock rubs and pushes his hand against him, and suddenly they can't get rid of the remainder of their clothing fast enough.

They tussle for dominance on the bed, rolling back and forth in the instinctual dance of sex. Hands grip to form bruises upon thighs and hips; mouths bite and suck and lave; fingers twist and tweak and tease. Mycroft finally pins Sherlock down, thrusting his tongue into Sherlock's mouth and receiving a gratifying moan in return. Separating, Mycroft orders in a husky voice, "Stay."

He trails his hands down Sherlock's arms, then his sides. Meanwhile, he moves to suck on Sherlock's neck, marking him with bruises, soothing the spots over with his tongue. He repeats the process as he moves down his chest, paying special attention to his nipples, teasing them with his tongue, a showing of teeth. Sherlock arches his back with a moan, moving into a wave of his hips, pressing up against Mycroft. "Please," he breathes, " _please_."

"Hmm?" Mycroft dips his tongue into Sherlock's nave. "Tell me what you want, Sherlock."

"S-Suck me," he says, a hand tugging on his own hair, the other pushing at Mycroft's shoulder.

He licks down the trail of hair leading to Sherlock's cock, before swerving at the last moment to suck on Sherlock's inner thigh. "Like that?" He says cheekily, looking up at Sherlock as he licks around the base of Sherlock's cock.

Sherlock shoots him a look full of desperation. " _Mycroft_ ," he moans, grasping at the hair on the back of his head, "for the love of god please suck my cock."

"Mm, fuck yes." He licks around Sherlock's balls before moving to his cock, flicking at his frenulum. Airily, he adds, "feel free to fuck my mouth." He closes his lips around Sherlock and takes him to the root. When he swallows, he feels the grip on his hair tighten. He moans as he feels his cock jump, rutting against the sheets to obtain a measure of relief.

"Oh god," Sherlock groans, sitting up a little for a better vantage point of Mycroft bobbing up and down on his cock. Stilling Mycroft's head, he gives a few experimental thrusts with Mycroft looking up at him. " _Fuck!_ " He feels a pulse of precum that is immediately swallowed by Mycroft, and has to pull Mycroft off his cock. "I can't, I can't, Jesus, Mycroft, your mouth is fucking _illegal_ ," he pants.

Smirking, Mycroft sits up, runs his hands along Sherlock's thighs, helping him to calm down. "Why thank you," he murmurs, placing soft kisses on his knees. He moves his hands up to cup Sherlock's arse, kneading them. Watching Sherlock's pucker wink in and out of sight, he growls, "I recall a request to ride, Sherlock. I'm eager to oblige."

"Yes," he breathes.

Mycroft closes his eyes, and takes a deep breath. He presses against his own cock, pulling down on his balls to stave off his mounting pleasure. "Hands and knees, if you please." He goes to retrieve lube from his drawer as Sherlock repositions himself.

"I've just realised that I have no condoms here - I never planned to share this bed with anyone."

Sherlock's voice is muffled by the pillow. "I'm clean, are you?"

"Yes." He places himself behind Sherlock, running his hands down the scarred back, feeling a pang of regret. _He suffered for my failure, again._ He kisses them softly, each intended as a silent apology.

Sherlock arches into his kisses. "Then there isn't a problem."

"Good." With a lubed finger, he teases at Sherlock's entrance, before slowly pushing it into him. Sherlock gasps, instinctively rocking back into it. It doesn't take long before Mycroft has three fingers deep in him, spurred on by Sherlock's impatient demands and groans.

"My, but you _are_ responsive, aren't you," he says as he complies with the order. "How delightful." He crooks his fingers, making Sherlock moan into a pillow, gripping at the sheets. With his other hand, he trails it towards teasing Sherlock's cock, stroking him lightly.

Sherlock throws his head back, releasing a loud moan, rocking his hips back and forth. "Mycroft… _Mycroft, stop_!"

Mycroft immediately releases all hands from Sherlock, watching him shudder and gasp and groan in what appears to be a huge effort to control himself. He lubes up his cock with a self-satisfied smirk as he waits. When Sherlock's breath finally evens out, he lies back in invitation, tugging Sherlock into place.

Mycroft is nearly undone when Sherlock's hand wraps around his cock to position him. Maintaining eye contact, Sherlock sinks down slowly, breathing through the intrusion of his cockhead, before taking the rest of him in one smooth motion. Mycroft's pupils blow wide as he thrusts his head back, the sudden pleasure of _warm, wet, tight, realised fantasy_ assaulting him like a cricket bat swung at speed. He grits his teeth, growling loudly as he grips at Sherlock's hips tight enough to form bruises.

"Fuck, _Sherlock!_ " He pants. "How– oh, whatever." He cuts himself off as he returns his attention to Sherlock's body. He is covered in a pale sheen of sweat, biceps working as he holds on to Mycroft's waist. His skin is flushed as he pants to the ceiling, and his cock is hard and straining, begging for attention.

Finally, he starts to move in a rhythm seemingly designed to torment Mycroft. He grows ever more frenzied with each roll and thrust of Sherlock's hips. When he is unable to take much more, he plants his feet on the bed, thrusting up to meet Sherlock's movements. He moves Sherlock until each thrust sends him further into babbling, until Sherlock's hand flies across his cock. "Mycroft, Mycroft, _fuck_ …!"

"Yes, Sherlock. Come for me. Come on me. Open your eyes and let me see you." One, two, three pulls later, Sherlock obeys, the sight emblazoned in Mycroft's memory. As Sherlock's arse clenches around him, Mycroft comes with a yell, his uncontrollable thrusts sending his load deeper into Sherlock.

They stare at each other through the dregs of their orgasms, even as Sherlock leans forward to capture Mycroft's mouth with gentle kisses, nipping at them occasionally. Somehow, it becomes the single most intimate moment of Mycroft's life, this conscious post-coital sharing of gaze and breath. Wonderingly, he cradles Sherlock's jaw, stroking at his cheek as his eyes flit across his face. _I love you. If only I could tell you how much I love you._

With a final kiss, Sherlock dropped his head to Mycroft's shoulder. "Don't say it, brother."

Mycroft's cock, still inside Sherlock, gave an involuntary twitch. He feels Sherlock grin into his skin. "Mycroft!" He breaks out into giggles. "You are such a fucking deviant, _brother mine._ "

"Sorry." He bit the side of his cheek, amused at himself. "Well, not really. That would be the height of hypocrisy to say so right now. But do you mind getting off me?"

"Yes. S'warm."

"Mm. It's also sticky, and swiftly moving into hot. Get off." He pokes Sherlock in the ribs.

Squirming, Sherlock moved gingerly off Mycroft's cock before sprawling on the bed with a groan.

Mycroft rolled off the bed, plodding towards the ensuite. The sight that greets him in the mirror is shocking. _What– I appear to have been well and truly ravaged. When did *those* happen? Shit, Sherlock has no decorum even regarding above-collar bites. At least I've already arranged to be away from Gregory this week. All the better to savour these souvenirs before they fade._

Cleaning himself off, he prepares a flannel before returning to the bedroom. After gently removing the traces of semen from Sherlock's body, he flings the flannel to a corner before laying back, unsure if further physical contact would be welcome. _Is this to be a "casual encounter"? I wish there was a protocol for a casual encounter with one's brother. But really, nothing about that was casual. Lord, what a mess. I hope he'll want to do this again._

"Why are you over there?" Sherlock intrudes into his private musings.

Eyes flashing open, Mycroft turns to him. "I…well, you indicated that this…I don't know. Would you like me to come closer?"

Sherlock rolled over to throw his arm over Mycroft's centre instead, lifting Mycroft's arm to cuddle around him, ending up lying half atop him. Huffing as he resettled, he said, "You are thinking too much."

Pausing for a beat, Mycroft opts for honesty. He's really far too blissful right now to dissemble. "Considering that I've just had my brains shagged out by my own brother, I think I can be excused for trying to gather my thoughts."

"Should I be insulted that you were capable of having thoughts to gather, while I was in a similar situation and could only contemplate when we'd be able to go again?"

 _Blinkblinkblink_. "Again?" Mycroft repeated dumbly.

"Yes. You have only satisfied two-thirds of my plans for tonight. Again is necessary."

 _What?_ Mycroft rewinded through their conversations of the night, his grasp on Sherlock tightening as he stumbled upon it and his brain supplying helpful images of Sherlock's lips wrapped around his cock. He took a deep breath as Sherlock chuckled. "Sex really does slow down your brain, brother."

"Menace. Though I am not inclined to resist. And… will you be seeking a repeat of the rest of it?"

"Possibly. I can't very well drop in when I know now that your nights aren't always spent here, though."

"I suppose you'll have to arrange it via a telephonic device like a normal person, then."

"Dull."

Mycroft sighed. "I'll just let you know when I expect to be here then, shall I? Does that facilitate your dramatic appearances well enough?"

"Or you could just ask me to have dinner when you want to see me."

"I thought phones were dull."

" _You_ 've always been dull. I've come to expect it." Sherlock paused. "Well, until a couple of hours ago, at least."

"…Oh?"

Mycroft swears that he can _physically feel_ Sherlock's eye roll. "Alright, I'm in a generous mood. Quite apart from the fact that nothing about incestuous sex can be dull, surely you know I enjoyed it immensely. You were looking right at me."

Mycroft grinned. "Yes, in fact I was, and I shall never forget it. I think the moment approached a religious experience, actually."

Sherlock snorted. "Pray tell, which religion would accept that?"

"Clearly one of my own invention. All the others are simply too narrow-minded."

"I don't think you've ever been this absurd in your life. And what makes you think _you_ invented it? As they say, this isn't my first rodeo, you know."

Mycroft groaned. He flipped their positions, firmly wedging a leg between Sherlock's. _Fucking mine. Even if you don't know it._ "As I will not be attending any gathering of your lovers past or present, the point is moot. I will persist in my delusions if I so wish, thank you." Hesitating, he added somewhat awkwardly, "Also, and this may be perhaps a little late to ask, _do_ you have present lovers? Should I have condoms prepared?"

"Don't be daft, I would have mentioned it. I'll let you know if it becomes necessary, though I hardly see the point of having multiple sexual partners. Sounds exhausting."

Mycroft did a little mental celebration at that, fully acknowledging his absurdity and selfishness in the emotion. Reminding himself to respond, he said, "It simply depends on the regularity of encounters with each one."

"I– What? Have you always been this highly sexed?"

Amused, Mycroft grinned and nipped at Sherlock. "Not at all. I was placed in such a position earlier in my career, when I had to, say, maintain both personal and diplomatic connections. The necessity of such a personal touch for my work has dwindled, though it is still a factor every now and then. I don't think I have to reassure you that I am protected when I do such work."

Mycroft felt his head being swiftly jerked up, exposing his expression of fear and confusion. Sherlock had an incredulous look on his face. "You're kidding me."

"No. I'm sorry, I should have anticipated that you may feel we should not have engaged in unprotected sex under the circumstances, but–"

"No," Sherlock interrupted, "I have complete faith in your abilities of self-preservation. What I meant was, I never realised how… I just never realised you'd… have to spread your legs for Queen and country." Sherlock couldn't help but dissolve into laughter at this, clamping down on Mycroft as he tried to roll away. "Please, no, I'm sorry," he gasped out, as he continued laughing.

Calming down enough to speak, Sherlock continued, "Alright, I'm not really sorry and you know it. It's just so far from what I thought you did!"

"I'm hardly trotted out as Her Majesty's prostitute. Honestly, it's not as quotidian as you seem to be thinking."

"Or so you say. I assume Lestrade doesn't know about this either."

Mycroft scoffed. "Of course not. Do you think I'd let them mark me? Or that I'd carry some sort of guilt? If you couldn't figure it out, Gregory clearly never stood a chance."

"Hmm. This has been a most illuminating conversation, as I am now reminded that _I've_ marked you. Quite extensively." Sherlock rolled his brother on to his back, tracing the marks with his eyes and fingers. "Why have you let me mark you, then?" Sherlock asked, before following his fingers with his mouth.

"My mental faculties aren't fully present when you have your mouth on me, it seems. Even if they were, I don't think I'd care. Feel free to continue, though please stay away from anywhere above the collar. It's a pain to conceal."

"It seems your mental faculties are still all present and accounted for. I must be doing something wrong." Straddling Mycroft, he spots a few promising spots on Mycroft skin that have been left unblemished, and set to work. "You'll look even better once I'm done."

As Sherlock moved down his body, Mycroft feels his cock stir back to life. Dimly, he wonders at how Sherlock orchestrated him into a conversation lasting just long enough to achieve his goal, and how he never realised it.

He gave up his thoughts without a fight as Sherlock sank his mouth down on him. _Oh who the hell cares anymore. I'd let you do anything you like to me. Take me apart, my love, and I don't even care if you'll put me back together again._ Gripping on to him, he lets go of the last of his pretensions to controlling anything about his relationship to Sherlock.


	5. Settling

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know I said the next chapter would be a while, but it's the weekend and procrastination is the name of my writing game.

Each time they meet, the brothers finds themselves a little more unwilling to separate. They send each other away claimed, with marks all over their bodies that could only have been put there by a lover.

***

About a few months into this… _liaison_ , John finally speaks up. "So… this thing," he motions vaguely in the direction of Sherlock's bruises, "it's getting serious, then?"

"What makes you think it's the same person?" Sherlock smirks, flopping on the couch with his phone in his hands.

John sputters. "I– Er– Wh– Um. _Really_?"

Sherlock rolls his eyes. "John, how you go through life without _observing_. I've been away for two days, and it's a quarter past two. By the quantity and differing age of these bruises, it's patently obvious how I've spent my time. Do you think anyone who has a partner with such a voracious appetite would have the time or inclination to seek out another?"

'I– Er, I suppose. So, um, are you planning to introduce the lucky guy?"

"Ah! You do observe, if only somewhat subconsciously."

"Thank you," he responds sarcastically. "Tea?"

With an affirmative grunt, Sherlock turns his attention to his phone. As John passes him his mug, he says, "Don't think I didn't notice you avoiding my questions. So? I'm dying to meet the person who can put up with you on the regular. I'm thinking of forming a support group. Me, Greg, and Mystery Guy."

Unexpectedly, Sherlock flashes him an amused look, with something else in there that John can't quite identify. "That's a thought. But no. We're….private, I suppose. Maybe you'll see him at Christmas. Haven't quite decided."

John groans. "But that's months away!"

Sherlock shrugs, firing off another text.

_The interrogation continues. John would now like to invite my secret lover to form a trauma support group with Lestrade. Do let me know if I have made a mistake in declining it. - SH_

The response arrives a few minutes later, as John continues to grill him without success.

_As I would be deeply unwilling to share my coping techniques, they would be sorely disappointed. Nevertheless, the notion of it will keep me entertained for the remainder of my day. - MH_

_As well as mine. Oh would you know it - speak of the devil. Your husband's ascending the stairs right now. - SH_

_You may be enjoying this far too much. - MH_

_I'll enjoy it for the both of us this time. You can partake of this delicious feeling at the Baker Street Christmas party. Lover mine. - SH_

_How delightful that you'd deign to share more of life's pleasures with me. - Lover yours_

Sherlock turns his attention to the new occupant of Baker Street, who has just finished speaking and is now shooting him an exasperated glare. "Really, Lestrade, you expected me to listen to your nattering while I was clearly busy?" He shakes his phone, keeping the screen on.

At this distance, neither John nor Greg can any details beyond the unmistakable design of a messaging app. Greg's eyes flicker between the screen to Sherlock's bruises. His eyes lighten a fraction. "Apologies, I didn't realise sex would interfere with your ability to conduct multiple conversations at once." With a pause for a chuckle, he continues, "Well, as much as I'd love to interrogate you further, there is a little matter of murder that I need your help with. Seems to be a 7. Will you?" He shakes a file at Sherlock.

"Ugh, hand it over." Sherlock smoothly pockets his phone before Greg comes closer to hand him the file.

***

Two days later, the case is solved. What was cleverly presented as a crime of passion turned out to be a frame job by one of the husband's many enemies - the only thing interesting about the case was a decided lack of physical evidence to go on. The details are being rapidly deleted as Sherlock steps into a black car outside of New Scotland Yard.

Mycroft has a phone pressed to his ear, while he smiles gently at Sherlock, pressing a finger to his mouth in a shushing motion.

Maintaining eye contact, he says, "Yes, Gregory, he has just entered the car. Thank you for sending him down so expediently." He motions for Sherlock to come closer, but Sherlock just raises an eyebrow at him.

 _Brat,_ he thinks, as he snags his fingers through Sherlock's hair and tugs him into his arms. Speaking again, he says, "I'm sure I'll hear all about it momentarily. Or not, if the look I'm receiving now is any indication." _I do not think you are envisioning a fiery look directed at my lips as his hand trails up my thigh, but it is, strictly speaking, an accurate statement._

He massages Sherlock's scalp as his brother palms him through his trousers. "Yes, I'll see you for dinner. Now, I must ring off before I am in true danger for my life. Goodbye."

The phone has barely left his ear before Mycroft finds himself with a lapful of Sherlock, his tongue aggressively licking into his mouth. After a few moments, he pulls Sherlock back with a grin. "Hello, brother mine. Feeling possessive, are we?"

Sherlock looks pensively at Mycroft, before sliding sidewaysto cuddle into his side. "It certainly seems so, doesn't it?" He sighs. "You may be right, I have detected some possessive inclinations lately. But I am in no state to think clearly until I get a few hours' sleep, so when can I see you next?"

Holding Sherlock tightly to him, Mycroft instructs his driver to take them to Baker Street before replying. "I am always available to you when I am in London, dear. I do have a trip scheduled for a few days next week, but otherwise, I am but a call away."

"Even tonight?"

"Of course. You must know that you have always been important to me above all else. Would you like me to cancel dinner with Gregory and take you to Kensington instead?"

Sherlock considers this for a moment before shaking his head. "No, keep your plans. I think it's time I sorted my…thoughts on this before I ask any more of you."

 _You can ask anything of me, and I shall give it. Only ask. Even this hope that you might feel something more has been beyond dreams._ 'That is sweet of you, brother. Very well." He bit his tongue before he could say anything more pressuring, like _Let me stay with you. Stay with me. Don't send me back to him. Call me tonight and claim me. I want nothing more than to be yours alone._

They sat in silence for the remainder of the ride, basking in the silence and each other's presence. As they pulled up to Baker Street, Mycroft couldn't help himself but to give Sherlock a kiss goodbye, attempt to express in it all his feelings that he could not put into words. _Please, please don't decide you're done with me. I'll be whatever you need me to be. Even if it's just this, let me have this. Don't let me go. I love you so much._

With a grip on Mycroft's arm, Sherlock pulled away, panting. Speaking gently, he said, "You don't have to kiss me like that, Mycroft. I promise." He placed a hand over Mycroft's heart, feeling its frantic beating. "I've listened to your music, remember? I know. I know it all. Just give me some time."

Mycroft sighed, trying to calm his wayward, panicking thoughts. He pressed Sherlock's hand firmly to his chest. "Yes, alright. I'll try." Sighing again, he kisses Sherlock's knuckles before returning the hand to its owner's lap. "Now go, before I change my mind and kidnap you anyway."

Stepping out of the car, a cheeky grin broke through his tiredness. "Maybe I'll do the kidnapping this time."

Mycroft watched as Sherlock entered 221 Baker Street, and continued gazing for several moments even as Sherlock disappeared from sight. He wondered what Sherlock would say if he knew he had already been held as his hostage for close to 20 years and never once struggled to get free. _After all, who else would be more suited to my heart and my soul than the one who is cut from the same cloth?_ With a shake of his head, he raps on the driver partition. No more time to waste if he is to make dinner tonight.

***

Belgravia has never felt much like home, save for the comfort that Gregory provides. These days, however, that comfort is feeling increasingly hollow; everything has been sullied by the hope of _anything_ , of _something_ , of _more_ that his new…. _relationship_ with Sherlock has promised.

Tonights turns out to be no different, even if he is somewhat more agitated by the afternoon's discoveries. Despite his desperate musings, he is still more than capable of holding his act together; after all, concealing his true emotions has become a second skin, and he has never shed it in front of Gregory for him to know any different. The one concession he makes is to 'forget' to silence his phone. If Sherlock is intent on interrupting his night, he would make sure to welcome it.

The night passes in a muddle of casual talk of their day, as well as Lestrade's ongoing fascination with the lack of strop from Sherlock about their relationship. Mycroft simply hums and makes the same response he has always given. _Sherrinford changed all of us. I think it's made him realise that I have never been the enemy._ A stray thought that his hand feels very different, and wrong, against his lips is quietly tossed aside as he kisses it gently.

Before long, Mycroft finds himself pushing into a panting Gregory. He is not so delusional as to think that love and lust are so closely intertwined that he is unable to maintain an erection for someone that isn't Sherlock even if he has had him now. He didn't so much accidentally fall sideways into the role of a cheating bastard as he dove wholeheartedly, full-throatedly, balls-deep satisfyingly into it. So, there is nothing to be done but the practicalities of maintaining this facade.

He nearly folds Gregory in half as he throws a leg over his shoulder, while he buries his face in Gregory's neck to place kisses there - hitting all the spots he knows to drive him to incoherence. He contemplates that maybe he should feel guilty, but where is the guilt to be found in finally, _finally_ having what he wants? Where is the guilt in deception, if the goal of it a state of blissful ignorance? Possibly a certain level of sociopathic leaning is genetic, he muses. Or maybe he has forgotten how not to be a cold-hearted bastard – but that's not quite right either. He does feel guilt, because he thinks that Sherlock must know that he would be fucking Greg tonight, and he can't quite shake the scum forming around his heart as he chases his orgasm with another man.

As Gregory is moaning that he is close, _so close_ , a phone rings from the bedside table; before he can extricate himself to lunge for it, Gregory has already gotten ahold of it. Looking at the screen, he viciously jabs at it to stop it from ringing. "Ugh, no, Sherlock, you can wait."

Shocked, Mycroft unconsciously gives an extra deep thrust, causing Greg's eyes to roll back into his head as his phone flops weakly back on to the bedside table. With a growl (and if it is a frustrated one, how would Greg know the difference?) he pushes in deeper, willing him to come quicker. _God fucking damn it all._

Immediately, another phone buzzes nearby, this time from Gregory's phone. Groaning, he places a hand on Mycroft's shoulder to get him to slow down, picking up the phone ."Sherlock! Can this wait five fucking minutes?" He snaps.

" _No, I need to speak to my brother."_

"He's kind of busy right now."

" _I could have lived without the tawdrier details of my brother's sex life, Graham."_

"Five minutes!"

Rolling his eyes for Greg's benefit, Mycroft takes the phone from him, hearing. " _I'm just going to keep calling_."

He has to pull out of Gregory and regain an iron grip over his face before responding. "Brother mine. What is it?"

There is a pause in which he hears a sudden inhale, before it is slowly released. "Brother _mine_ ," he hisses, "pull your cock out of Lestrade. Back to Kensington, Mycroft Holmes." The line clicks shut.

 _It's no Serbia, but it's still deliverance._ He closes his eyes as his hand falls back into his lap. In this moment, he doesn't trust his eyes not to give away the secrets of his heart. He needs to compose himself sufficiently to carry off his next lines.

Handing the phone back to him, Mycroft fills his eyes with what he hopes is regret as he says, "I'm sorry, Gregory, but I have to go. It's related to the matter I had to speak with his about this afternoon. You know how he gets."

Mycroft lets himself be pulled into a cuddle for a while. "I expected as much. Little brat." He huffs as he releases Mycroft, who sets about to get dressed. There is no time for a shower, but he quickly runs a toothbrush through his mouth anyway. Some things are not negotiable, like the taste of a lover's other partner.

"Given the hour, I'm not likely to make it back tonight. Sweet dreams, Gregory." He plants a kiss on his forehead, maintaining a sedate pace out of the bedroom as he calls for his car.

***

He takes the time during the short drive to reconfigure his brain, relaxing a little into the seat as he casts aside the persona of Mycroft Holmes, the aloof husband. As he allows his long-denied hope to flame in his chest, he readjusts to Mycroft the brother, lover, and hopeless romantic fool. Before he has much more time to contemplate anything else, the car slows to a stop.

He takes several deep breaths as he approaches the front door, as he tries not to let his hopes run away with him. It is once again made abundantly clear to him how out of control he is, when he is bodily hauled past the entrance by a hand gripped into the front of his shirt, and pressed up against the front door by a wiry frame. _God, finally, yes_ , he has time to think, before his hands sink into Sherlock's hair, the pair desperately gasping into each other's mouths as Sherlock sees fit to plunder his with his tongue.

Breaking away with a smack, Sherlock affixes him with a dark look. "You absolutely still smell of fucking sex, Mycroft. I can't…I…Ugh!" He storms in the direction of the bedroom, and it is clear that Mycroft is expected to follow.

"I'm sorry, Sherlock. It was a choice between a shower or getting here as soon as possible. I chose the latter."

"Yes," came the growl, "I know that, but it doesn't make it any better. Why, Mycroft? Why are these… why… why do feelings do this to people? How does anybody function with their feelings corrupting their rational thought processes? It's insufferable!" He pushes Mycroft angrily into the en-suite bathroom.

Mycroft opens his mouth to respond before realising that he has no words, not right now as his brain is spinning, even as Sherlock is roughly divesting him of his clothing. _Feelings? Does he…really?_ He can't quite bring himself to make that logical conclusion, and yet–

"Feelings?" He utters weakly.

In lieu of a verbal response, Sherlock merely takes a turn around his body with a grim sort of satisfaction, before biting and sucking down on the side of his neck, grabbing painfully at the nape of it. He feels a flash of teeth as Sherlock pulls away. The dull throb at his jugular tells him all he needs to know, but helpfully, Sherlock says, "Wash him off of your skin, brother mine. I never want to taste him again."

Under Sherlock's watchful eyes, Mycroft obediently steps under a scalding shower, making sure every inch of his body is scrubbed. He looks at Sherlock whenever he can, and relaxes as some of Sherlock's tension drains together with the water and soap sloughing off his own body.

Stepping out of the shower some time later, Sherlock is there waiting for him with a soft fluffy towel; Mycroft drips on to the tiles as he allows Sherlock to dry him off, revelling in his tender touch and gentle kisses along his shoulders. Task complete, Sherlock wraps him, arms and all, in the towel, as he stands in front of him. "I hope that wasn't too much," he mumbles to his chest.

Mycroft shook his head resolutely. "No. Never. While I hope you never feel like that again, I'd be lying to say I was at all offended by it." A hand snaked out between the folds of the towel to knead at Sherlock's hip.

"Good." Sherlock captured his mouth in a gentle kiss, keeping it chaste even as it lengthened. "Let's get comfortable on the bed," he murmured against Mycroft's lips.

"Whatever you wish, brother mine," he responded, walking the pair of them towards it. As he reached up to undo the buttons on Sherlock's shirt, the towel fell away, abandoned.

Sherlock started to speak as Mycroft worked at carefully undressing him, pulling the shirt off his shoulders. "I realised tonight that I really am an idiot."

Mycroft hummed skeptically as he slipped the belt off his trousers. "Why?"

"I sent you away when I knew I didn't really want to. I didn't want to see it, to admit it." He stepped out of his trousers, shoes already carelessly discarded. "But I spent the evening composing on the violin even as I was thinking about it, and I realised it was quite stupid to fret when you've alreaady made yourself perfectly clear."

Mycroft's thumbs caught in the waistband of Sherlock's pants as he flicked his gaze to meet Sherlock's. "And…you've come to a clear position of your own?"

"Yes," he said on a deep exhale. "I know you're already mine in here," he tapped at Mycroft's heart, "in here," at his temple, "and everywhere here," running his hands along Mycroft's side. "But I find I want to claim everything external to that. I want your time, your life, your drive to live, your _home_. I hate that Lestrade has a claim on those parts of you that is mine, that has always been mine."

Mycroft responded by tackling Sherlock to the bed with a ferocious kiss, pressing every bit of skin possible to his brother's for a few long moments before he raised his head. Cradling Sherlock's head in his hands, he looked into his eyes. "I will give you anything you want, but I can hardly believe you're asking for it. I'm…afraid, Sherlock." He fluttered kisses across both of his cheeks, his nose, his forehead. "You've asked for everything and you'll break me if you change your mind. So please, please, are you sure? Please don't ask this of me if you're not. I won't survive it."

Sherlock returned the kisses on Mycroft's face. "Yes. Give it to me. Give me what's mine. I'm sure. And Mycroft? Look at me." Looking directly into his eyes, he said in a steady voice, "There you are, lover mine. Now listen: you already have it all from me, because I love you. I've written you an accompanying violin piece because I _love_ you. And in loving you I am also protecting myself, so I think you'll be stuck with me for a while."

Mycroft feels his vision waver in front of him, and he ducks his head down to process several shuddering breaths. "I love you," he whispers into his skin. "God how I love you," he says, mouthing at his ear. "I've been wanting but so afraid to tell you for so long."

"I know; I told you, I know. Your music said it all for you that night you played for me. I should have seen that you have been trying to tell me all along, but apparently I needed to literally be hit in the head for that to happen. I'm sorry for it all."

"It doesn't matter anymore, Sherlock. Anything would have been worth it to be claimed as yours."

Sherlock nudges him to his back, flipping their positions. "Let me take you tonight. Let me possess you. And in the claiming know that you are the only one I have ever wanted to claim, and that it is as strong a claim as anyone has ever had over me."

Mycroft felt a surge of emotion grip his heart as he nodded, drawing their faces together again. As their tongues interwined, as Sherlock drifted his mouth and hands over his body, and as he gripped on to Sherlock's as his cock possessed him, the overwhelming emotions ebbed away to be replaced by a deep sense of rightness. He gasped, panted, and sighed his doubts away; his mind quieted from its whirling thoughts of disbelief as Sherlock whispered sweet nothings against his skin, laving his love across his thigh, and prepared him so well he never had a moment of discomfort.

As Sherlock thrusted deeply into Mycroft, he shuddered at the sensations as his prostate was hit just right, and Sherlock's grip tightened around him. Stroking Mycroft's cock, he said breathily, "My god, Mycroft, you are a fucking vision. All mine,' he put some force behind his hips as he said it, "just mine to see you this way, to hold you tight and safe and fucking loved."

Mycroft simply groaned, grasping at the sheets around him. He panted out, "Yours, Sherlock, yours. Please, please…."

Sherlock sped up his movements, watching Mycroft keenly as he reined in his control. "Yes, Mycroft. I want you to give it to me. Everything you are is mine. Come for me." As he pounded fiercely into Mycroft, he felt it in his bones as Mycroft exploded in his hands, shouting his ecstasy into the room, arse gripping around his cock as he rode Mycroft through his orgasm.

As Mycroft whined from oversensitivity, Sherlock slipped out of him, moving up to straddle him. Swiping his hand through Mycroft's cum, he used it as lubricant to stroke his own cock, growling as Mycroft greedily absorbed the sight in front of him and tweaking Sherlock's nipples.

With his other hand stretched behind him, gripping Mycroft's raised thigh, he gritted out, "I give myself to you, Mycroft. _Fuck_!" Watching the jets of cum streak across Mycroft's chest and neck, and even hitting the side of his cheek, Sherlock groaned in satisfaction, while Mycroft smoothed his palms down Sherlock's body, murmuring, "I love you, Sherlock, I love you. Come back to me now, darling."

Panting, Sherlock slumped forward, letting himself be cradled within Mycroft's body. Belatedly, he groaned. "Oh lord, we are so fucking slimy."

Mycroft chuckled. "I'll need a moment to regain the use of my limbs before I can do anything about that."

Inhaling deeply, Sherlock let out a contented sigh. "You smell perfect now."

"Ye gods, you've turned sappy."

"Scent marking is sappy?"

"Animal." Mycroft hummed as they relaxed into each other, but before too long he regretfully pushed Sherlock to one side to attend to their mutual stickiness.

Bodies cleaned of cum, he settled back into Sherlock's arms, happily reminded of the first time he found himself in this position. _One need only see my dreams come true to know that it cares not a whit for fairness_ _or morality._ _Boy, but Sherlock's right. He does smell perfect, too. How soppy_. He lazed into the cuddle, appreciating the hand trailing up and down his spine as he stored the memory in a special place in his mind palace. _Oh, time to change the plaque._ Smirking, he made one small change: _The Seduction of_ ~~ _Sherlock_~~ _Mycroft Holmes. Yep, that's accurate._

"Care to share the joke?" An amused voice asked.

"Oh, just some redecoration of the mind palace. Sorry. It's nothing."

Sherlock hummed. "Work tomorrow?"

"Of course, it's the middle of the week." Mycroft groaned. "Damn, I have an early meeting tomorrow that I can't shift. But will you come by tomorrow? Or even stay here?"

"Mycroft, I _can't_ stay here. I'm not going to use my room and your staff will get suspicious. Anyway, I have to see Lestrade tomorrow."

"Whatever for?" Mycroft raised his head to frown at Sherlock.

"Tying up the case, nothing much."

"Well, alright," he said cautioiusly, "but don't give the game away. I will give you everything you've asked for, I promise. I'll work it out with Anthea tomorrow, and I'd love to see you for dinner after."

"Oh, have a little faith, Mycroft," Sherlock pushed his head back down on his chest. "I'm hardly going to fly off at him in a rage of jealousy now. I trust you to–" Sherlock made a face. "Ugh, I sound like your typical housewrecking whore. Nevermind. You know what I mean. And of course, I'll see you for dinner."

"That's about as accurate as calling the Duchess of Cornwall a housewrecking whore." He pressed kisses all over Sherlock's chest, lifting his head again. "Though of course, you are infinitely more attractive."

"I better be," he grumbled, reaching for Mycroft's phone to hand it to him. "Here, do what you need to do so we can get some sleep."

"Thanks, my love. I'll be just a moment." He kept his leg intertwined with Sherlock's as he typed instructions away to Anthea.

_A,_

_Pickup Kensington 7.30am. Brief me in car._

_Schedule time to plan and update household arrangements, including form DIP-179 ready for signature._

_Reservations for two at Locatelli, 7pm. Private dining. Send car for Sherlock._

_\- MH_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspiration for DIP-179 taken from some other fics, which have a similar form. +1 Mystrade fan levels if you get it before it's revealed in the next chapter.
> 
> Talk to me in comments, I'm so lonely. Also, in further need of procrastination. 
> 
> x


	6. Unsettling

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My procrastination drives this fic, honestly. The word count seems to be having babies. Halp.

Anthea does a wonderful job of containing her curiosity all day, until the scheduled time for their discussion rolls around. Then, and only then, she shows obvious signs of being fairly bursting with it, almost bouncing on her heels. Mycroft indulgently cocks his head with a smile, waving at her to close the door.

"Have a seat, Anthea. I trust you managed to obtain the form with all due discretion?"

"Yes, sir, together with the standard HR-001 for change of personal details." She places a folder on his desk before taking a seat.

"Very well. I shall not keep you in suspense much further, though you must know by its very nature what I am about to tell you. I am indeed planning to get a divorce from Gregory, and will stay permanently at Kensington with immediate effect. Do inform the drivers, ensuring that Gregory continues to be ignorant of its existence. Please inform the staff at Kensington that the grocery order should be planned to include a guest when I am in London, as well as to change the linen scent in the master bedroom to something….soothing. I'll leave it to your discretion. Oh, my dear, your eyes are bugging out of your head."

Anthea continued to stare at him for several moments, before a few blinks seemed to do the trick of restarting her thought processes. "Uh. Sorry, sir, I…" She cleared her throat. "I am simply surprised as I had not noticed any development in that area that would have precipitated this course of action. It need hardly be said that my loyalties are to you, sir, and of course I will facilitate you in whatever you need."

"Thank you, Anthea. Your discretion is also very much appreciated and I suspect I will be abusing it in the near future."

"All due respect, you couldn't abuse what you should expect, sir. In your interests, and certainly not for my own curiosity, could you inform me as to the identity of your new partner so I can conduct the necessary security checks on your behalf?"

"That will not be necessary, as he has already been vetted." At Anthea's look of surpise and confusion – _hadn't he repeatedly said he would never engaged in such activities with the staff?!_ – he added, "Due to the work he has done with us in the past, he has the necessary security clearances, though no one in their right mind would give him any more details than necessary."

As Anthea's confusion deepened, he continued, "I don't mean to tease you, my dear, but merely set your mind at ease that there is no ssecurity concern in that regard. Nevertheless, you should know who he is, seeing as sooner is better than later in these things. But Anthea," he paused to gain her full attention, "I really do stress the importance of your discretion in this. If there are any circumstances in which you would not be comfortable serving me, this would be the point you mention it."

Anthea regarded her boss for a moment, the look of suspicion clearing quickly. Mycroft was gratified to see that at no point was there mistrust or real hesitation. "No, sir. I believe we have handled more sensitive and dangerous situations than anything one's personal life could engender."

"Well, those were matters of national security. In any case, I'll trust your judgement, and I'll also trust that you'll tell me if you would prefer not to be involved in my personal life henceforth." With that foreboding statement, Mycroft placed a call on his phone, setting it to loudspeaker on his desk.

The line connects after a few rings. _"Miss me, brother dear?"_

"Of course. Meanwhile, Anthea seems to be struggling to contain her shock. I'm afraid you've rather let the cat out of the bag."

Silence reigned for a beat before Sherlock spoke again. _"Yes, well, can't be helped that you didn't give me any warning of being on speaker. Hi, Anthea."_

"Hi, Sherlock," she squeaked, gripping the armrests on her chair.

"Well, that was far more expedient than I had thought it would be. Just one moment. Right, I've taken you off speaker now."

_"WHAT THE RUDDY HELL, MYCROFT!"_

"Oh, calm down. Better she finds out in my presence than otherwise. She'll have snooped anyway." At Anthea's outraged glare, he merely shrugged. "In any case, I still had some things to discuss here before I can leave. Tell me you forgive me and that I'll see you later."

_"I bloody well shouldn't. Make it up to me later."_

"Anything you wish. Goodbye for now, Sherlock." Mycroft set down the phone after hearing the corresponding goodbye, and turned his attention back to Anthea, who, at this point, had composed herself sufficiently to release her grip on the chair. "Well?" He raised a brow at her.

"Well…" she stalled, clearly trying to find her words. "You don't need my approval in the conduct of your personal life, sir, and so I don't presume to offer it. I also offer no judgement and my earlier statements still stand. You may rely on my discretion and loyalty, though for the love of everything, sir, please be discreet yourself."

Mycroft let out a breath that he didn't know he'd been holding as he nodded. "I am very glad to hear it, Anthea. Now, I would appreciate your counsel in how I can extricate myself from this sticky wicket I seem to have found myself in. As soon as possible."

Anthea tapped her pen against her notebook as she considered this for several long minutes; meanwhile, Mycroft poured a couple of glasses of whiskey, setting one down in front of her before leaning back to peruse the documents she had given him earlier. _DIP-179: DEREGISTRATION OF INTIMATE PARTNER_ , the first read, and dutifully filled in by Anthea. His mind flashed back to the equally bewildered look on Anthea's face when she presented him, years ago, with the form's counterpart. Wistfully, he thought about how he had felt then: alone but for a single life raft in the swirling seas, clinging quite literally for his dear life. Staring at his name, he thinks, _Thank you, dear Gregory, for keeping me sane all this time. You never deserved to be treated like this, and yet, how was I to know that my selfishness wouldn't be your happiness, but your despair? Who could have foreseen this, if I couldn't? I'm sorry. If I had only known._

Mycroft put his pen to paper, signing it before burying his face in his hands. "Anthea," he said softly, "please think of something that would be the least hurtful to him. I know I'm the sodding bastard in this situation - but I simply cannot stay with him any longer. Tell me, what do I say to him to make it easier?"

"Well, sir–"

"I think you can drop the 'sirs' for this conversation, Anthea."

"Very well– Mycroft. If you are intent on doing it right away, there is no way to minimise the damage. Unless… have you contrived some discord in the relationship?"

Mycroft leant back, shaking his head. "No. Nothing of the sort." He took a swig from his glass.

"Then from his perspective, this will be extremely unexpected. Given his history, the fastest way would be to confess to an affair, though this will be the most hurtful method, I think. Do you have any established grievances against him?"

"The very lack of it is truly the only reason he was even considered for the position."

"I see." After a few more minutes in which her whiskey is decimated, Anthea suddenly straightened her spine. "I believe I may have a solution for you, sir– er, Mycroft. I hope I'm not presuming incorrectly to say that your…attraction to Sherlock is somewhat based on your shared unique intelligence?"

 _Woman, have you not seen how he looks?_ "Amongst other things, yes. It has always felt like… there was us, and then there was everyone else." _Best not to call her a goldfish to her face. Those Louboutins would make terribly effective weapons._

"And when he left, it was just you." At his sharp gaze, she shrugged. "I have to know you in order to do my job well, Mycroft. Combine that with all you've taught me in observation, it wasn't a terribly hard conclusion to draw."

Mycroft smiled wryly as he returned his gaze to his glass. "You'll do well in my position one day, Anthea."

"Thank you, sir– Mycroft– oh, blast it. Anyway, might you not simply play the Iceman, then? Now that Sherlock is back, you find you no longer need him to meet whatever need he provides you with – not, um, sex of course, no need to get into that."

"Hmm. Essentially, to be the bloodly, hyper-rational and unfailingly calculating individual he once thought me to be?"

"Yes. The Iceman. Make him think he was mistaken in thinking you were anything but."

"Yes," he considers, "that may work. But do I _have_ to mention Sherlock? Only, Sherlock will throw a strop if Gregory refuses to work with him after this."

"That's certainly something you'll have to discuss with Sherlock. Otherwise, you'll have to substitute in some fictional person - after all, why would you change the status quo without some external factor pushing you in that direction? And if it were anybody else, he'll be unable to see it as anything but infidelity, whether emotional or physical."

"Very well. Your counsel has been invaluable, Anthea, as always." He lifted his glass in her direction before draining it. "Oh, I can't believe it almost slipped my mind. Please arrange for a divorce solicitor to act for me; I'll trust in your choice. Give him instructions whenever you see fit. I have considered my earnings during the period of our marriage, and I believe the Belgravia flat will be a suitable offer for the property settlement. Well, really, I don't expect him to want to take anything at all, but I'd like to offer it anyway and hope to heaven he accepts it."

"Of course, sir. Leave it with me. Shall I call for the car? It's close to six o'clock, and I can take care of the loose ends around here so you can head with the car to Baker Street if you wish."

"You know, I think I will take you up on that offer. Once again, thank you. If you could arrange for me to have a late morning, that would be fabulous as well."

Whipping out her Blackberry, she scrolls for a moment before responding. "You need only attend a meeting with the Joint Intelligence Committee at 2pm tomorrow, sir. I can clear your schedule of everything else."

"Then please do. I think I'm about to have a very long few days, and I'd be grateful for a day of respite."

"As you wish, sir," she says, lifting her eyes from her Blackberry. "The car will be here in approximately five minutes. Have a good night, sir. I'll get back to my duties now."

***

As he slid into the car, Sherlock started. "Brother! I wasn't expecting you in the car. Released early on good behaviour?"

Mycroft smiled weakly as he reached over to twine his fingers between Sherlock's. "I suppose you could say that, but honestly, the talk with Anthea only went downhill after our call." He sighed. "I'm glad to finally see you, though. How was New Scotland Yard?"

"…Alright, I assume you'll talk about it later." At Mycroft's nod, he continued. "It was just a standard case wrap-up, helping with suspect interrogation. After, Lestrade seemed to want to punish me for my ill-timed call last night, but I put him off. No reason to act out of the ordinary."

"That's good, then, as I'll be broaching the separation with him tomorrow. With the plan I've come up with Anthea, you may have to bear some of the whinging. For my part, I'll be incommunicado for most of the early days - I've got that trip, if you recall."

"Oh of course, how convenient for you, brother mine. But what's this about me?"

Sherlock adopted a pensive look as Mycroft filled him in on the details. Finally, he nodded. "Well, the best lies are always grounded in the truth. There's no doubt going to be some misattribution of blame to me, though why couldn't you just name someone anonymous or you know, declare this person's name _classified_?"

"I rather think he'll chuck something very heavy at my head if I said that," Mycroft snorted. "Let's continue this after we've ordered, shall we?"

Twenty minutes later, after they had been served with their first glasses of a very nice Beaujolais and the waiters blessedly left them alone, Sherlock raised an eyebrow at him across the table as if to say, 'well?'

"Alright. Picking the conversation back up, I had asked Anthea much the same thing - but you remember that Gregory's ex-wife's cheating precipitated that divorce."

"I don't see how that shouldn't work in your favour. It'll do the job quickly, and making a clean break of it."

"Yes, well…" Mycroft sighed, and met Sherlock's eyes. "Truth be told, I do feel some small measure of guilt for having involved Lestrade this way. I suppose this presented as an elegant solution to minimise the pain I'll be inflicting while also ensuring that it'll be quickly done with. I understand that you're concerned that he will refuse to give you cases for a time out of spite. If you feel that you cannot live with that risk, then I may as well just tell him about my diplomatic affairs."

"I didn't think this would be on me, brother." He shifted uneasily on his seat.

"Not quite so easy at the moment of reckoning, isn't it?"

"Mm. You really feel that strongly about this? I'll be so _bored_ without cases."

"You know there's always work in my office for you. Besides, since Eurus is off limits now, a second Holmes brain would be even more valued on Her Majesty's Service."

"How complimentary to be the last choice."

"Oh, don't be difficult, Sherlock, you know very well what I mean."

"Fine. _Fine_. We'll do it your way. Sentiment really is found on the losing side," he grumbles.

Mycroft couldn't help but melt a little. "I appreciate it, brother mine." Stretching out a leg, he hooked his foot around Sherlock's ankle. "Thank you."

Sherlock rolled his eyes even as he hooked his foot around Mycroft's calf for a moment. "Yet another thing you'll be making up to me for, brother dear."

"I will. And to that end, I have the day off tomorrow, save for a meeting in the afternoon that I couldn't get out of. I am entirely at your disposal to exact compensation from, in whatever manner you see fit." Mycroft grinned. "Barring any serious crimes, I shall plan to see Lestrade after that, before returning to Kensington. For good."

"A toast, then, as I have no doubt you'll pull it off splendidly."

***

Mycroft did not, in fact, pull it off splendidly. As their DVD collection crashed to the ground, he vaguely wondered if there was a specific curse attached to toasting a celebration ahead of time, or if came under the general umbrella of a jinx. Gregory had only thrown a mug at him which he caught, much to Gregory's annoyance, so he supposed he could thank the proverbial someone for small blessings.

 _"Are you fucking kidding me, Mycroft?!"_ Greg panted with the exertion of having flung his limbs wildly for the last several moments, eyes flaring. "I just can't believe this."

"So you've said. Nevertheless, it is the truth. I deeply apologise for having misled you all this time."

"No. You told me that you loved me. How could you ask me to believe that it was a lie? Who the hell ends a marriage because their brother has been _nicer_ to them? Pull the other one, Mycroft!"

"I can, because it's true. You have known me as the Iceman before. This was… simply an extension of that. Sherlock contributed nothing but to highlight how hopeless this is."

"No." He resolutely shook his head. "I know you're not like that, Mycroft. I've spoken to the real person underneath all of that," he waved vaguely in his direction, "bullshit."

"There's not as much there as you would like to believe. I do hope you'll come to accept that, as there is nothing else I can offer you. I'm very sorry that I have disappointed the both of us in that I can no longer provide you with the happiness that I once thought I could give. You are welcome to stay here, as I will be staying in one of my other residences. In the settlement, this flat will be yours anyway."

"I don't want the bloody flat!"

"Just take it, Gregory. It suits you, and all your things are here. I have no more use for it. I'll arrange to have my things collected while you're at work. Goodbye."

"Wait!" Greg deflated, body stilling. "Just…" He stepped slowly into Mycroft's personal space. "Pretend for a moment more that you still love me and kiss me goodbye."

"I do not think that would be wise, Gregory."

"I don't care. After this, all of this, you owe me something. It's all I'll ask."

Mycroft searched his eyes for a moment before giving in. "Very well." With a glancing touch on Greg's arm, he pressed a soft kiss on his lips, intending it to be the end of that; however, Greg reached up to pull him closer and deepened the kiss. He allowed it for several moments, sensing Greg's desperation, but when he felt a swipe of tongue against his lower lip, Mycroft pushed him away.

He hated that Gregory's face was a wreck, that even despite his benevolent lies, he had not succeeded in lessening the pain. Perhaps, this _was_ the lesser pain. He didn't care to find out otherwise. Lips trembling, Greg said, "I still love you, Mycroft."

"I know, but I don't love you. I'm sorry. Goodbye." He fled the apartment before he would be forced to bear any more witness to the suffering that was so wholly avoidable, _if only he hadn't been so lonely, so selfish. If only he had anticipated the possibility._ He refused to shake his head at himself at this. _There is no point to ths, Mycroft. Accept it and move on._ He rapped on the driver partition to signal that he was ready to leave, and typed out a the same message to Anthea and Sherlock.

_It is done. - MH_

Still feeling deeply dissatisfied, he decided to call Sherlock instead. The line connects within half a ring. "Brother mine."

"My love, can you come to Kensington? I need to see you."

"I'm already here. Are you alright?"

"He took it about as well as we could have expected, that is to say, not well at all." He rubbed at his eyes and sighed. "I love you very much, my dear."

"You're not manipulating me into saying it back just because you need to feel validated about your decisions. I will, however, stay on the phone until you get here."

"I'm sorry, Lockie." He watched the streets fly by out the car window. "I didn't even realise I was doing it."

"I'm starting to feel offended that this is having such an effect on you. Regretting it, are we? Emotionally entangled?"

"Of course not. You couldn't understand how much or how long I've wanted this for, or you wouldn't think to ask me that. I must confess to an amount of affection for him. After all, he was a friend first. I regret having to hurt him, that's all."

"Oh, he'll be fine. We can only work with what information we had. For example, I would probably have let the snipers take him out if I knew this was going to happen."

Mycroft snorted a laugh. "You're joking. Surely between saving his life and this momentary inconvenience, the former wins out. Besides, Moriarty seemed to think you had a greater affection for him than the rest of them."

"Not _that_ much greater, Mycroft. High-functioning sociopath, remember? I saved him simply because I could, just like any other case I take on. Really, Moriarty only needed to target John or you to spur me into action, but any other two goldfish would have been equally effective failsafes. You're not the only manipulative Holmes, you know."

"Me? I thought you'd have been glad to be rid of me then."

"As you also thought at Sherrinford. But where would I be without you, brother? Left for dead in a drug den somewhere? Besides, it would be intolerably boring if I all I had were goldfish for company."

"And here we approach the reason I got myself into this predicament in the first place."

"I know. It's why I've never blamed or judged you for it. In your position I might have well done the same."

Mycroft paused before responding. "This is it for you as well, then."

"I am not defining our relationship over the phone. Why are you still sitting in the car?"

"Well, we were on a roll there."

"On a– _what_? Get in here."

"Okay." He grinned to himself. "I'm hanging up now."

Sherlock was waiting for Mycroft across the front door as he let himself into the house. They grinned at each other as Mycroft came forward and embraced him, kissing him briefly on the lips before peppering more kisses on his cheek, jaw, and neck, nuzzling in as he breathed in Sherlock's scent. "Hmm. Truly, it feels like this is all I needed."

"We'll stay here for a bit then." Sherlock spoke into his ear, sending involuntary shivers trilling down his spine. He felt Sherlock cradle his head with a hand, the other going around his waist, as they stood in the entryway swaying a little, allowing their heartbeats to synchronise.

Just as Mycroft was feeling a little boneless from the soothing patterns Sherlock was tracing on his scalp, Sherlock spoke again. " _Then seek not, sweet, the 'if' and 'why',_

_I love you now until I die._

_For I must love because I live,_

_and life in me is what you give._ "

Mycroft smiled, pressing a kiss to his neck before lifting his head. Cupping Sherlock's cheek, he replied, " _Despite my sad and faded face,_

_And darkened heart, you love me now!_

_I count no more my wasted tears;_

_They left no echo of their fall;_

_I mourn no more my lonesome years;_

_This blessed hour atones for all._ "

With twinkling eyes, Mycroft leaned down to capture Sherlock in an open-mouthed kiss, taking the two small steps to press him against the wall to keep his balance. Moaning as his back hit the wall, Sherlock pulled on Mycroft's hips so that their upper bodies were flushed against each other.

They kissed and grinded with no great urgency, seeming to relish simply in the doing, in the knowing, in the feeling. If between the two of them a there was a stray brain cell, they might have been amused at the thought that it would be a fine time for criminals great and small right now, as two of the greatest minds in London were otherwise occupied and likely to be so for quite a while.

As they drew apart to satisfy their pesky need to breathe, Mycroft traced his thumb over the contours of Sherlock's face, his eyes following in their wake. Unbidden, he started whispering, " _I swear, since seeing your face, the whole world is fraud and fantasy_."

The corners of Sherlock's eyes crinkled for a moment before he smoothed it away to adopt a faux-annoyed expression. "You can stop quoting poetry at me now."

" _The desperate lover can hope no redress, where beauty and rigour are both in excess_." Mycroft bit his bottom lip.

"Oh god, what is wrong with you? Your brain is broken. Let's see if sex will cure it." Sinuously extracting himself from the wall, he tugged on Mycroft's hand to lead him to the bedroom.

"I'm not comparing you to a summer's day, at least."

"I will _withhold_ sex if you stoop to such banality."

"You shall not." Having reached the bedroom, he pulled on Sherlock's hand sharply, causing him to stumble backwards into Mycroft. He gripped Sherlock around the waist tightly with one arm, while the other made its way to the topmost button on his shirt. Dipping his head, he sucked and licked at the sensitive spot just under Sherlock's ear until he felt ragged breaths under his fingertips.

Mycroft pulled out Sherlock's shirttails before spinning him around, pushing the shirt off his shoulders. As Sherlock set to work on his buttons, he shrugged off his coat and jacket. As the buttons on his waistcoat came undone, he growled, " _I crave your mouth, your voice, your hair._ "

Sherlock's eyes flashed as he pulled off Mycroft's tie and started in on the buttons of his shirt. " _Silent and starving, I prowl through the streets,_ " he continued, biting hard at the juncture of his neck and shoulder.

" _Bread does not nourish me, dawn disrupts me._ " Sherlock's belt fell to the ground, together with Mycroft's shirt. Pushing Sherlock roughly to sit on the bed, Mycroft dropped to his knees. " _A_ _ll day I hunt for the liquid measure of your steps._ " He pulled Sherlock's shoes and socks away, kneading his feet for a moment before trailing his hands up his calves and thighs, standing again.

Sherlock hooked a leg behind Mycroft's knee, and twisted him so he fell on to the bed with a huff of surprise. Quickly moving to straddle Mycroft, he bent down to steal a searing kiss before saying against his lips, " _I hunger for your sleek laugh_." Sitting back on Mycroft's thighs, he set to work at Mycroft's suspenders, even as his own trouser button and fly were being undone.

The room filled with the sounds of rustling and groaning, as the business of removing the rest of their clothing proved too frustrating to think of poetry. Finally, with their mutual tasks accomplished, Sherlock found himself on his back again as Mycroft, settled between his legs, rolled his hips and rubbing their hard cocks against each other.

Mycroft captured Sherlock's groan in a kiss, licking into his mouth and against his tongue. Pulling on his hair, he tilted Sherlock's head as he sucked on the underside of the other ear, before trailing his mouth downwards, biting on Sherlock's collarbone and eliciting a sharp gasp. Continuing, greedily inhaling the scent of his skin, and the feel of the pressure of his fingertips against Sherlock's waist, he placed a quick, wet kiss on a nipple, before sucking it into his mouth and bit down with a graze of his teeth.

Sherlock keened as his back arched off the bed, a hand flying to the back of Mycroft's head instinctively. As Mycroft continued his torture of first one nipple, then the other, Sherlock moaned, thrusting his hips upward in search of friction.

Mycroft gripped his thigh firmly, grounding Sherlock as he moved further down. He shifted his hand to end up between Sherlock's legs, caressing at his balls while he nuzzled at his navel. Sherlock's breath became increasingly ragged as Mycroft's mouth got even closer to his cock, and the hand of Sherlock's that was on his head moved to grasp urgently at his shoulder.

As Mycroft came to hold Sherlock at the base of his cock, Sherlock moaned and loudly pleaded with him. "Oh, Mycroft, please, _please!_ "

"Please what?" He ghosted a hot breath against Sherlock's weeping tip, before giving it a leisurely swirl with his tongue.

"Oh fuck, _suck me_ –" His sentence aborted with a sharp inhale as Mycroft wrapped wet lips around him, flicking at his frenulum before he sank down. Sherlock, head flung back, scrabbled desperately and gripped Mycroft's hair, thrusting his hips once before he caught himself. "Sorry," he breathed, "but oh, _oh!_ " he groaned as Mycroft hummed around him, sending delicious vibrations through his body.

With Sherlock fully in his mouth, he worked his throat muscles as his hand trailed downwards, pressing into his perineum to bring about a delightful burst of precum down his throat before venturing further. Suddenly, he popped off Sherlock's cock as his fingers encountered something unexpected.

Sherlock groaned and panted harshly as Mycroft shifted to look. "Oh," he breathed, "you've been very smart, lover mine. And _very_ naughty." He gripped the base of the butt plug and gave it a slight twist, relishing as Sherlock's eyes screwed shut as he groaned again, hand flying to his cock and pressing down hard. He gasped out, "Fuck, please, wait," he gritted out.

Mycroft registered that his own cock was throbbing painfully at the sight of Sherlock so overcome, and he mirrored Sherlock's movements to give himself a measure of relief. He gave them both a few moments to calm down. Seeing Sherlock's eyes flutter open, he firmly kneaded at Sherlock's thighs. "Get the lube, Sherlock," he said, eyes flashing as he looked intently between Sherlock's legs and up to his face again. "I would very much like to fuck you now."

Sherlock's cock twitched at his words, before he leaned over to retrieve the lube. As Mycroft slicked himself up with one hand, the other wiggled the butt plug until Sherlock squirmed, hands grasping at the sheets. With a satisfied hum, he pulled on the plug, sliding it out of Sherlock, who groaned in– _relief? Agony?_ – he couldn't quite tell, but it wouldn't matter for long, as pulled a pillow under Sherlock, lining himself up with his hole.

"You are twitching so beautifully, my darling. You're gagging for me to fill you up, aren't you?" He teased his hole with the tip of his cock, sliding it up and down across his entrance. At Sherlock's frantic nod and gasping _pleases_ , he pushed in just enough to nestle the head within Sherlock.

Sherlock groaned loudly as his legs moved around his waist, wordlessly demanding _more_ with his eyes and his heels digging into his buttocks. Grasping Sherlock's hips, he pulled back, before sinking back into him with one smooth motion. Sherlock's legs clamped impossible tighter around him as he shouted his pleasure, hands scrabbling at Mycroft's shoulders to pull his body towards his.

Mycroft's skin blazed at every point of contact with Sherlock's, complying with the demands of Sherlock's body without realising it. In this moment, his mind was blissfully blank– well, not exactly blank, but flooded with the pleasure flowing through his whole being that there was no space to process any thought or sense except that on his skin. Goosebumps erupted under Sherlock's hands and spread to his arms as he groaned with Sherlock.

Panting to catch up with his racing heart, he finally opened his eyes to find himself supported by his elbows, hovering over Sherlock. He bent his neck to kiss him softly, lovingly, pouring his heart liberally into it until Sherlock moved his hips impatiently.

He broke the kiss with a chuckle, raising a brow as he gave a sharp thrust of his hips. Sherlock groaned before shooting Mycroft a look which had him chuckling again. "I don't know anyone else could pull off desperately aroused and indignant at the same time, darling."

"Nor will you ever again if you don't start fucking me properly!" Sherlock said daringly as he pinched Mycroft's thigh.

"Rude," he said gruffly as he thrust hard and deep, "insolent," _thrust–_ "maddening," _thrust–_ "and completely," _thrust–_ "utterly," _thrust– "mine."_ His hand sought out Sherlock's as he bore down on him, continuing his punishing rhythm as he watched Sherlock dissolve into incoherency, a wicked satisfaction coursing through his veins as all emotion but pleasure melted off his face.

He slowed a little as he nudged them both into an angle designed to bring Sherlock to climax; as Sherlock's grip on his hand tightened in response, he reached his other hand to Sherlock's leaking cock. Sherlock opened his eyes wide with a breathy _yes_ , and locked his eyes to Mycroft's. Maintaining his rhythm, Mycroft started to speak, or more accurately, growl, as he stroked his cock. " _I want to eat the sunbeam flaring in your lovely body,"_ he started, and Sherlock groaned as he writhed on the bed, _"the sovereign nose of your arrogant face,"_ he sped his hand up, rubbing at the head of it with a twist, " _I want to eat the fleeting shade of your lashes–_ "

Sherlock had been making unintelligible noises through this recital, but as Mycroft reached the last line, he started coming, saying, "Mycroft, Mycroft, _fuck_!" His gaze never left Mycroft even as his hand crushed Mycroft's, and the heat of him wrapped ever tighter around Mycroft's cock fucking him through his orgasm.

As Sherlock came down from his high, it was Mycroft who broke his eyes away as he shifted, snarling as he grasped Sherlock around the waist to chase his own climax. He pulled Sherlock into him with each thrust, and when Sherlock reached up to twist his nipple sharply, he flicked his eyes back to Sherlock's as the jolt of pleasure sent him careening off the ledge, coming as he looked at Sherlock's smug satisfaction.

Slipping out of Sherlock, he brought his legs down and collapsed half atop of him, panting into his shoulder and leaving weak kisses there. Sherlock soothed him, stroking the arm flung over his torso. Slowly, Mycroft's breath started to even out, and he positioned his head so that he could look into Sherlock's face. Gingerly – as the angle was still a little awkward – Sherlock kissed the apple of his cheek and murmured, " _and I pace around hungry, sniffing the twilight, hunting for you, for your hot heart._ "

Mycroft's chest huffed with surpressed laughter as he caressed Sherlock's cheek. "You have it, my love. Always."

Sherlock pressed another kiss to his forehead, before moving to sit up and get a flannel. Before he could get off the bed, however, he groaned. "You didn't _really_ have to fuck me like an animal."

"Didn't I?" Mycroft slid his slitted gaze towards Sherlock, but quickly got distracted as he was sporting some very pretty bruises around his midsection.

Sherlock swatted his ass as he got up. "And you call _me_ a menace."

That jolted Mycroft out of his reverie, as he realised he probably should have a shower before crashing. Following Sherlock into the bathroom, he dragged his brother into the shower with him, though shower really was all they did, taking care of each other's bodies after the evening's activities.

Returning to the bed, they simply laid there cuddling for a time, before reality called and they both leaned over to fetch their phones.

Mycroft had barely laid his head on Sherlock's tummy when he felt it move suddenly. "Oh, already?!" Sherlock demanded at his phone. Glaring at Mycroft, he said, "I've got seven missed called from Lestrade. And several texts." He returned his eyes to his phone, thumb flicking as he read. "Oh. Well, there's good news and bad news. Good news is, he's still giving me cases. Bad news is, he wanted me there–" His phone started to ring in his hand. "About 30 minutes ago."

Rolling his eyes, he answered the phone. "Lestrade."

_"Where the hell have you been?"_

"I'm sorry, I didn't know I was at your beck and call. I was busy. What is it?"

_"It's a 7, maybe even an 8."_

"Much as I'd love to race down there right now, I really rather not. Take pictures of absolutely everything, and I'll need to sleep if I'm going to be working on a potential 8."

" _Sleep? It's only– Oh, you've just gotten laid, haven't you._ "

"I applaud you for deducing the blatantly obvious. Goodbye, Lestrade." He tapped the phone off before turning to Mycroft. "Well, you heard it."

"Yes," Mycroft sighed. "Do take care and try not to get killed."

"I promise." He slid down from his sitting position to a lying one, while Mycroft sent off his last instructions before fitting himself against Sherlock's back, intertwining their limbs. "Goodnight, lover mine," he whispered against Sherlock's hair.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ANTHEA = A Nice-To-Have Exposition Agent
> 
> I apologise (not really) for gratuitous poetry. Italicised lines are google-able to find its sources - too lazy to cite them.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've given up labelling these chapters. Here, have an update!

"Alright, Sherlock? Where's John?" Lestrade said, not even mildly surprised at his unannounced entrance to his office.

"On his way. I wasn't at Baker Street. Where's the case file?"

Lestrade waved a hand towards the file open on his desk, before placing his broad palms on top of it. "Before that. I want to ask you something."

"What?"

"Er. Have you spoken to Mycroft in like, the last 24 hours?"

"No. I was kind of preoccupied last night, as you know." Sherlock made a show of looking closely at him. "Big brother finally broke it off, I see."

"Finally– Damn it, Sherlock, you could tell me about my ex-wife cheating on me not once, but twice, but you can't tell me about Mycroft? How long have you known?!"

 _He's been mine since the day I was born, you idiot_. _It was only a matter of time._ "I delete all memories of ever seeing evidence of your sex life with Mycroft, so I really couldn't tell you," Sherlock said instead, flippantly. "Besides, haven't you and John told me repeatedly to keep my unwanted deductions to myself? I've been trying it out. As well as staying out of Mycroft's business." He smiled sarcastically.

Lestrade took in a rough breath, burying his fingers in his hair and pulling roughly. "Listen, I want them now. Your deductions. Tell me why he would do this."

Sherlock cocked his head. "That didn't come out in the conversation?"

"No, it did, but– It's just crazy! Who lies that convincingly about loving someone? How could he do that? Has he been cheating on me?"

Sherlock huffed, before walking closer to Lestrade. "Alright, Greg. I'm only going to talk about Mycroft this once, and then I never want to hear about it again. I can do all of those things, and therefore, so could Mycroft. My brother and I have been engaged in a game of oneupmanship for so long that neither of us are capable of reading the other on appearance anymore when we want to hide something from the other. So when it comes to him, I can offer no assistance. I'd advise you to take him at his word, whatever it is he told you, because even if you don't, you'll never figure it out anyway."

Lestrade looked hard at Sherlock, who only met him with nonchalance and a raised brow. He stood up abruptly, turning towards the window to stare blankly out of it. "I thought I had a pretty good grasp of the two of you. But maybe doing good things alone doesn't make a person good. Doesn't mean they actually feel anything. Do you, Sherlock?" He turned around. "Feel anything? Or are you and Mycroft just like your sister, and we should all be extremely thankful that the pair of you get more satisfaction out of doing good things than burning the world to the ground like her?"

Sherlock blinked. "You don't seem like you want an answer."

"No. Yes. Sod it, just… Here." He reached into his drawer and pulled out a file. "I made a copy of the file for you. Just… go and do what you do. Somewhere else."

***

After 4 days of running around the city, Sherlock finally collapses on his couch, successful as usual, but exhausted beyond reason. Before he fell unconscious, he spared a fleeting thought for the expanse of softness that was Mycroft's bed.

It was dark by the time he woke up, confused as to his surroundings before he felt the rough grit of his Union Jack cushion against his face. He snuggled into the blanket that covered him, smiling to himself.

"Are you up, Sherlock?" A quiet voice asked from his kitchen.

It wasn't quite the one he was hoping for though. He peeped open one eye, seeing John standing at the threshold with a mug of probably tea in his hand. "Trying not to be, but I think I'll give it up now. Give me that."

"This is mine. Come into the kitchen, I'll make you another one. There's food here, too."

Sherlock grumbled, closing his eyes for a moment before he roused himself. He checked his phone. Out of battery. Damn it. He quickly plugged it in before he ventured towards the kitchen.

John placed a steaming mug in front of him as he sat down, then sat across from him. "Good nap?"

"Not really, but it'll do. Where's Rosie?"

"She's just with Mrs Hudson now. Didn't want to scare her with the dead body of Uncle Lockie on the couch."

"Don't call me that." He grumbled. God, it was ridiculous how much he missed Mycroft. He had left for Tokyo a few days ago and wouldn't be back for another three days yet. Sherlock sank into his chair as he sipped his tea.

"Why not? It'll be easier for her. You can't expect her to pronounce 'Sherlock' at two. Uncle Lock just sounds too stern."

Sherlock looked at him for a moment, thinking. "Too many memories, John. Too many."

"Oh? Care to share?"

Sherlock looked into his mug, warming his hands on its side. Scenes from his childhood flitted through his mind. "When I was young, it was always Lockie and Mycie. At least, that's what we called each other. My parents hadn't yet understood that I hated my boring first name and insisted on calling me Billy. Can you imagine? William and Mycroft? So plain. Billy was always called for the boring things. 'Stop running in the house, Billy!' 'Sit still, Billy!' 'Why can't you be good and quiet like Mycroft, Billy?'" Sherlock said sarcastically. He shook his head. "Mycroft was the only one who listened to me and started calling me Sherlock, which became Lockie when he wanted to cajole me. Then we grew up, and we became Sherlock and Mycroft. Do you understand?"

John furrowed his brow, before he shook his head. "No, I don't think I do. It sounds like the name has good memories associated with it. Why not let Rosie use it?"

Sherlock huffed. He stalked to the fridge, opening it aimlessly before closing it. He walked back to sit in his chair. "It reminds me of when I went from being Lockie, to being Sherlock. Can't you see it? There's meaning to names, John. What you call someone gives you an insight into their relationship. It's so unconscious that people tell you more than they mean to, just by what they call someone else. It's why I stay away from all sentiment in my work. I can't allow my own to cloud what someone else is telling me about theirs."

"You didn't want to grow up? Don't all teenagers love to be treated as adults? I don't understand. Is this why you and Mycroft have been fighting all this time?"

"Of course I wanted to grow up, John, don't be stupid. Adults get to do things like shoot the walls without being sent to bed for misbehaviour." Sherlock rolled his eyes.

But why did he have to pay a price for coming of age? Why did he have to grow apart from Mycroft in the process? From Lockie to Sherlock, Mycie to Mycroft, and childhood shadows to stiff strangers. Somehow, somewhere along the way, it became easier to fight than to mend fences. Until now.

He sighed. "It's too much to explain, John. The weight of our history, the old scores, old resentments… We've been better since Sherrinford and I don't want to think about all of that. There's no use in it, anyway. Just take it as I don't want anyone else to call me that. I'll be Uncle Lock until she's old enough."

John softened. "Yes, alright. Uncle Lock it is. Hey, that makes me think. Any nicknames from your partner?"

Sherlock stifled a laugh as he thought. _Oh yes. Brother dear, brother mine, Lockie, lover mine, darling…_ "It would scandalise the both of us if I told you. Better not."

"Oh, gross. They're sex names, aren't they." John shuddered. "Thank God I've already eaten. The rest of the food's yours." He gestured toward it.

Sherlock nodded. "Fetch my phone, would you? It's just on the table over there."

"Why don't you get it yourself, you lazy arse?" John moaned, even as he went to retrieve it. A few moments later, he returned with it in his hand. "Ooh, 4 messages from Mycroft. Someone's in trouble with Big Brother."

Sherlock snatched it out of his hand. "Shut up and go away. Don't you have a daughter to tend to?"

"I'm currently busy with my other child. What does he want?"

Sherlock glared at him. "A little privacy, please." John rolled his eyes before retaking his seat.

_Congratulations on solving the case. Do try not to get embroiled in another one before I get home. I miss you. - MH_

_< picture: dinner for one - bento box with a teapot beside it.>_

_I used to love hotel beds. This one's just cold and empty. - MH_

_Honestly, still sleeping? Do take better care of yourself, my dear. - MH_

Well, there was no way he could tell John that Mycroft was bored and thinking of him. Instead, he said, "He's thrown Gordon over and is now somewhat belatedly concerned about its effect on my work. I don't think he'll shut me out for long, though. Scotland Yard still needs me. I'll just have to take more MI6 work in the meantime."

"Wait, what?" John did a double take. "What happened, and what has it got to do with you?"

Sherlock sighed, eating wearily as he explained as quickly as possible. Finally, as John would not stop asking him questions for which he was not supposed to have the answers to, he chased him out of the house. "Go and ask one of the men in the relationship, would you?" He asked exasperatedly. "I'm done talking about this."


	8. Baker Street Christmas

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Merry Christmas...belatedly! I've had this scene half-written for MONTHS.

Mycroft stood by the kerb, looking up at a window of 221B Baker Street. From the tracks around the door, it was obvious that a large group had been here, but the lack of cheesy Christmas music combined with the relative lack of shadows past the windows indicated that most of the party had left. Of course, this could also be explained by the fact that it was past 11pm on Christmas Eve, and he was beyond late to the party, but one never knew how long these things would drag on for.

He took a last drag from his cigarette before he flicked it out onto the street. Well. He could dawdle no longer. He slipped in with the key Sherlock had given him a few months ago, pocketing it securely as he ascended the stairs.

Hearing a door open and shut, he looked up as he reached the first-floor landing to see Sherlock leaned lazily against his closed door, a glass held carelessly in one hand. "I was starting to think you'd stood me up."

"I couldn't get away earlier. Who's left?"

"John and Graham."

"Why you insist on using the wrong name confounds me." He took the glass, giving it a sniff before wrinkling his nose. "Mrs Hudson's lethal punch. How much of this have you had?"

"Enough to do this." Sherlock grinned before he yanked him forward by the scarf to kiss him soundly. "Don't worry, they're too sloshed to notice anything. Even less than usual, that is. Merry Christmas, brother mine." His eyes twinkled as he released him. While Mycroft was still stunned, Sherlock opened his door with a flourish. "The Queen has decided to show up!" He announced to the room.

Mycroft rolled his eyes. The amount of Christmas cheer in the room hurt his eyes, with wrapping paper strewn carelessly about and tinsel absolutely everywhere, including on the animal head on the wall. Greg Lestrade was splayed out on the couch, John in his armchair that had been dragged to sit across from it. Sherlock's was there as well, and from the imprint on the leather, had obviously been vacated by him when he heard Mycroft ascend the stairs.

"Merry Christmas, Mycroft," John said, lifting his glass at him, while Greg gave him a more muted reception. It was to be expected, he supposed.

"Happy Christmas to the both of you as well. Excuse me, I'll just go and get a drink." He went in search of liquid fortification, while Sherlock disappeared into the bedroom. Meanwhile, John tried to break the awkward air in the room by engaging with Greg in conversation. Or goading him into having more alcohol, it sounded like. Well, it barely mattered. Surely the both of them would make themselves scarce soon and he could have Sherlock to himself.

He couldn't hide in the kitchen for long, though, or it would be obvious that he _was_ hiding. Downing his first glass of lethal punch quickly, he refilled his glass before making his way back to the pair. Two sets of eyes met his as he sat in Sherlock's. "What?"

"Don't you know that His Nibs doesn't like for anyone else to sit in his chair?"

"Well, it's not like there's any other seating here."

John shrugged. "It's your funeral."

After a few minutes, Sherlock emerges from his bedroom, grabbing the bowl of punch along the way to place it in the middle of the coffee table. "Here. You can all drink until whatever this tension is passes, or you pass out. I really don't care which. Until then–" He broke off, narrowing his eyes at Mycroft. "You're sitting in my chair."

"Told you," John mumbled under his breath.

"It was either this or move your precious clutter from the chair over there." He pointed his thumb towards it.

Sherlock paused for a moment, Mycroft realising too late that he was scheming something until he had snatched his glass from his hand, downing its contents before setting it down. Turning back to him, Sherlock clambered up to sit in his lap, his thighs spread around him.

Mycroft reflexively placed his hands on Sherlock's waist. After all, it surely wasn't unbrotherly to ensure your brother didn't tip backwards arse over teakettle. Quirking an eyebrow, he asked, "What on earth are you doing?"

"Sitting in _my_ chair." Sherlock responded petulantly, though with a glint in his eyes.

Sherlock spread his knees so he could get closer to Mycroft, grasping his chin firmly and sharply angling it to his right in order to bend forward and whisper directly into his ear. "But aside from that, I told you I'd let you experience the thrill, too. Look at Lestrade. I bet his eyes are so wide right now. Isn't it delicious? He's probably even now reaching the right deductions, but he'll discard it. Who would think that we'd be fucking? If you moved your hand just a little, you'd be holding me as you do a lover. Hands over that arse you love, pressing me to you. He's looking right at us but he'll never know it's because of me that he'll never have your hands on him again."

Of course, Sherlock had calculated perfectly, with Lestrade right in Mycroft's line of sight. His deductions were, quite naturally, spot on. The rasp of his voice, the transgressive murmurings, the very public nature of it had Mycroft's blood running south.

Taking a deep, controlled breath to calm himself, he gripped Sherlock tightly and pushed him to his feet. Choosing his words carefully, he said, "Be that as it may, you must know that you are no longer of an appropriate age to be climbing all over your big brother like a tree. Unless you'd like me to put you in bed at the end of the night as well?"

Sherlock's eyes flashed. "I seem to recall that it was your bed I was most often tucked into."

Greg coughed at this, loudly, as he choked on his drink. His eyes watered as he croaked, " _What?_ "

Mycroft resisted the urge to roll his eyes. "Sherlock, as a child, would more often than not find his way to me in the middle of the night. It seemed to be the only way he would get a full night's rest. So when it was my duty to put him to bed, I hardly saw the point in the two-step process."

John laughed. "He still has problems sleeping through the night. How many times I've come down for a glass of water to find you up and about…" He shook his head. "Hey, that reminds me. Your partner never showed up."

Mycroft and Sherlock looked at each other briefly. Sherlock spoke. "How is that relevant?"

"Well, I'm just curious. Does he help you to sleep through the night?"

In lieu of a response, Sherlock simply flashed him the filthiest grin he could muster. After a beat, John flushed. "I didn't mean _that_. Lucky sod."

"Nobody needs to hear about your sex life, Sherlock," Mycroft admonished, keeping up appearances.

"I didn't say anything about it."

"You weren't thinking loudly so much as projecting it for all the occupants of this room."

As they engaged in a heated silent discussion (from the outside, at least), John interrupted again. "Say, Mycroft, we know nothing about this guy. Surely you do. I mean, did you kidnap him to a scary warehouse as well?"

"Well… Let's just say that there is an open line of communications between us."

Sherlock shrugged as John flicked his eyes towards him. "There's a lot people, myself included, would put up with for sex and sentiment."

"Sherlock, do you mind either getting off my lap or cease talking about sex? Really, I'd prefer if both happened but I've learnt not to set my expectations too high."

"Then get off my chair."

"And how am I supposed to do that?"

"Then you've got quite the predicament, don't you, brother dear?" In a move that contortionists everywhere would approve, Sherlock somehow manoeuvred himself to sit across Mycroft's lap instead, legs hanging off an arm of his chair while an arm was slung across Mycroft's shoulders.

"So, does anyone else want to quiz me about my sex life?" The room groaned. "As a bonus, it would make Mycroft _very_ uncomfortable."

Greg and John looked at each other, forming a silent agreement to drink more. After a silence in which they had a few more drinks, Greg piped up. "Alright, I'll go. Though it's not so much about sex. Just… what _is_ your boyfriend like?"

"Fantastic in bed," came the immediate reply. At a vehement protest from the room, Sherlock relented. He discreetly played with the hair on the nape of Mycroft's neck as he spoke. "He is a selfish man that is selfless for me, a pianist that composes for me and inspires my own music, the master of his world who allows me to rule his heart, and of course, he puts up with my obnoxious arse, so I suppose that makes him the better man."

All three men stared at Sherlock in silence, until Mycroft said, "Well. Do make sure you tell him what you've just said to us. I'm sure he'll be very appreciative."

"I'd hope he would have known it without me putting it into so many words," Sherlock murmured, leaning into Mycroft a little before he caught himself. Looking away, his gaze crossed with John's, who was glancing curiously between him and Mycroft. However, he quickly shook his head and reached for more punch.

Meanwhile, a similar interaction was happening between Mycroft and Lestrade, who, while sloshing punch into his glass, said rather sarcastically, "Yes, I'm glad you're happy, Sherlock. Won't have much time to hang out with big brother anymore, would you? Or maybe you do, since he's clearly too busy to spend Christmas with you?"

"That's enough, Gregory," Mycroft retorted. "In fact, you shouldn't drink any more of that. You're clearly too uninhibited."

"Oh, fuck you, Mycroft. You can't tell me what to do. I'll drink if I like, it's not like you care."

"I care about–" Mycroft cut himself off. "No, it's alright. Brother dear, I'm going to head home. Would you please get off my lap?"

Sherlock got up, and stalked towards Lestrade. Taking his glass, he poured the punch over his head. "Be serious, Lestrade. I'm a busy man, too. I don't care if I see him on Christmas or not. What matters is that he's mine. Blame Mycroft all you like for the breakdown of your marriage, I'm sure he deserves it, but leave my relationship alone."

Turning towards John, he said, "I'm going with my brother. Take care of him, or don't."

Mycroft had already shrugged on his coat, and helped Sherlock with his before they left. As they waited on the street for Mycroft's car, Sherlock took advantage of the shadow it threw to entangle his fingers with Mycroft's.

"You know, you really only have yourself to blame for showing up so late."

Mycroft cut his eyes towards Sherlock with an irritated glare. "Must you?"

"Would you rather I snog you on the street? I should have just gone to your place when it got late instead of waiting for you."

"Yes. I'm not sure if the thrill of sitting on my lap quite made up for the scene."

"Of course it did. And now you really do get to tuck me into your bed." Sherlock grinned.

"Truly, it will be the highlight of my night."

"When is it ever not?"

"I shall maintain my right against self-incrimination."

Sherlock elbowed him hard in his side. "If you're trying to get me riled up, it's working."

"I know." Mycroft smiled innocently at him, before it faded. "I wish to God I could touch you right now."

"Soon." Sherlock tapped his foot impatiently. On impulse, he threw his arms around Mycroft, hugging him tight. "This is fine. Brothers hug all the time. Maybe I'm cold, too."

Mycroft hesitated a moment before he gave in, wrapping his arms around Sherlock as well and resting his head on his shoulder as they waited. Before long, they were ensconced in the privacy of his car, speeding away to tuck themselves into bed.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> When i started this story, I had a plan. I really did. Then I couldn't stop going off on tangents. Help.

In the months following that explosive Christmas, Lestrade visited Sherlock far less often, which suited the man just fine – it gave him more time to spend with Mycroft, in between his usual private clients, and police work from the other DIs who were still not too proud to seek his help.

While Mycroft would never express this out loud, he was secretly happy with it, too. Oh, he wasn't concerned so much about the interaction between an ex-lover and a current one - Sherlock could handle himself just fine - but it meant that Sherlock put himself far less regularly into life threatening situations. It was the rare private client that engendered threats on his life, and far less serious ones at that.

One afternoon, on a regular lunchtime visit to Baker Street, Mycroft entered the apartment to be greeted with a new addition.

"What is _that_?" He exclaimed in disdain, unable to hide the latter in his shock.

"A thank you would be nice, brother dear," Sherlock's voice dripped with sarcasm. "Obviously I couldn't get even a baby grand in this place, so you'll have to settle for that." He gestured to the electronic piano now squashed in the corner, next to his violin stand. "I've been composing and need you to play along, but we can't very well run to Kensington on the spur of the moment. Hence." He waved with a flourish.

Mycroft went over, warily tickling the ivories and jumping as the sounds of an electric guitar came out. Sherlock laughed as he leaned over Mycroft, adjusting the settings before pressing down on a key to prove that he'd set it to play the piano. "Sorry, couldn't resist." He placed a quick peck on Mycroft's cheek before he moved away.

"Imp," Mycroft grumbled as he played a few bars of Beethoven. "I suppose it'll do for what you have in mind, though don't expect me to ever admit that again."

"Ungrateful sod. And even after I made copies of your sheet music, too." He indicated the bookshelf beside it, where its lower levels were cleared out for neat binders, each labelled in pleasing order.

Mycroft moved to give Sherlock a kiss, then another, and another. "Thank you. I'm sure I'll be very pleased to be help you compose, and no doubt it'll be better for it." Sherlock pinched his bum, causing him to laugh. "Did you want to start now?"

***

From that day on, lunch at Baker Street would, more often than not, be filled with the sounds of music-making, though sometimes Mycroft would descend to riff some jazzy or jig tunes just to annoy Sherlock or make him laugh.

The first time John caught them at it, he watched on in bewilderment at the symphony playing out in front of him, in disbelief that not only were the Holmes brothers both smart as hell, but were _both_ musically talented. When he finally managed to pick his jaw off the ground, he cleared his throat to announce his presence.

"I had to see it for myself when Mrs Hudson told me what was going on. How is it possible for both of you to be this talented? Leave some for the rest of us, would you?"

Sherlock smirked at him, while Mycroft merely grimaced. "This is hardly the best instrument, but thank you, John. Quite simply, music really is just…poetic mathematics. It really shouldn't be this shocking that we've learnt to apply one to the other."

"Well, the playing of it is a different skill. Do you mean to say that you've been composing too? And since when did you two get along well enough to even play through a piece together?"

Sherlock just gave him his signature, really-John look. "Really, John." And there it was. "Never mind. I'd much rather be playing than explain this to you. Are you done gawking, or do you want to sit and listen some more?"

John threw up his hands. "Fine, fine. Play for me, maestro."

Sherlock rolled his eyes and gave him a bow with a sarcastic look. Returning to Mycroft, he said softly, "From the beginning of my suite?"

Mycroft looked at Sherlock in surprise, flicking his gaze to John who was settling in his armchair. After a few moments, he nodded.

Sherlock straightened as he began to play, winking at Mycroft before he waltzed around the room with his violin, while Mycroft held a faint smile on his face as he played his secret for an unknowing John.

Sherlock drifted closer to Mycroft when they came closer to the end, locking their gazes to remain in step in the last bars of improvisation as the music faded to a close. They smiled softly at each other for a few moments, before the moment was broken by John's clapping. To their surprise, more claps came from the doorway, and they turned to see Mrs Hudson and Anthea gathered there.

"Oh, that was lovely, boys. Oh." Mrs Hudson clutched at her necklace, moving to stand behind John. "Wasn't it, John?"

"Yes." He cleared his throat, looking at the Holmes brothers wonderingly. He furrowed his brows as he struggled to remember something about last Christmas. "Yes, very nice. Good job."

Mycroft blinked, getting up from his seat. "Thank you. Now, as Anthea is here, I can only conclude that work calls. Mrs Hudson. John." He nodded his goodbyes to them before turning to face Sherlock. His eyes trailed over his lips, before he reached out to squeeze Sherlock's arm instead. "I'll see you soon, brother mine."

Sherlock bit his lip as he resisted the same impulse to kiss him. Knowing there was nothing else he could do, he simply nodded.

Mycroft paused in the doorway, bending forward as Anthea beckoned him into a whisper. To Sherlock's surprise, he turned around again. "Sherlock, join me in the car for a moment, would you?"

Sherlock quirked a brow as he looked at him, then at Anthea, who merely smiled serenely at him. "Sure," he responded, following his brother out the door. As he passed Anthea, his phone buzzed in his pocket.

_You have five minutes. - A_

_You're the best_ , he quickly tapped out, before he slid into the car after Mycroft, Anthea closing the door after them and standing guard outside.

He wasted no time in straddling Mycroft before kissing him breathless, relishing the feel of Mycroft's hands on his skin, crushing him tightly to him.

They separated after the initial frenzy, panting as they gave each other softer kisses until they rested with foreheads against each other.

"God, I would have been miserable all afternoon if I couldn't have kissed you."

"While I love you, Mycroft, I might quite possibly be in love with Anthea as well."

"I won't begrudge you that. In this moment I might love her, too."

They laughed at each other, quieting as they locked gazes.

"I wish…."

"I know. Me too, brother dear. I just don't know how. Not yet, at least. Even this… we can't play for them again. I think John might be starting to figure it out."

Sherlock nodded. "Mrs Hudson can be smarter than she seems, too. I've been thinking about something. But we'll talk later. Go to work, and give Anthea a box of chocolates or something."

"Or something." Mycroft smiled. "I think she would rather have control of something on my plate. I've been thinking, too." He kissed him again, smoothing down his clothes. "Now, go. Before Anthea regrets her decision."

Sherlock stole another kiss before he departed. Exiting the car, he gave Anthea a nod. "Thank you."

She gave him a onceover before she nodded, seemingly satisfied, and slipped into the car behind him.

Sherlock took a breath, before he ventured back into Baker Street.

***

Sherlock spent the remainder of the afternoon first chasing away his visitors, then sitting in his chair, idly plucking away at his violin strings as his eyes flitted around his apartment. To be sure, they had done an admirable job reconstructing it after a grenade blew it up, and _he_ had done an admirable job at collecting detritus to the level that he liked again, but still, everything was different. Sure, he had put holes back in the wall, but they were just holes. They didn't tell a story. Miraculously, Yorick had survived the explosion, even if his skull was now cracked in a couple of places. Even the violin he was now playing wasn't the one that Mycroft had given him at his university graduation. That was blown up, too. The only things that remained the same, really, was the sounds of London outside his new windows, and Mrs Hudson pottering away downstairs.

Even he was different. He hadn't made a fuss like Mycroft thought he would about having less police work now that Lestrade was treating him like persona non grata; even his private cases were giving him less satisfaction than they used to. After all the excitement and adrenaline of the last five years, he found that he was rather happier to be occupied by his violin, and to get back to his experiments.

His eyes cut to the chemistry equipment strewn across his dining table. He could reconstruct his old lab in Mycroft's house, though his requirements now were more varied than a graduate chemist's. And he had the money now, since Mycroft had released his full trust annuity to him after Serbia, to outfit it properly to his heart's desire. Or, he could just leave it here. After all, it wasn't as if he could bring down the criminal classes on the posh steps of Kensington, or that he was, god forbid, _retiring_ before he had even turned 40.

Mrs Hudson interrupted his ruminations when she brought up his afternoon tea. "Oo-oo," she cooed, setting the tea tray down next to him. "Still plucking away at that violin? Are you writing more music?"

"No, not right now, Mrs Hudson," he replied distractedly.

"Well, you should! I don't know why you or Mycroft would ever do anything else, really. Oh, that was something else you played this afternoon. Really something else. Mycroft had better be careful. Can't have more people knowing he's a ball of mush under that reptilian exterior." She tittered, settling into John's armchair with her cup of tea. "And you! That was so much better than that awful screeching you do sometimes. Why, the two of you seemed to be in your own world. You didn't even notice us at the door!"

Sherlock furrowed his brow, his gaze sharpening on Mrs Hudson, who was giving him the most innocent look she could muster. "Mrs Hudson, what on earth are you getting at?"

"Oh, nothing! Only that after that awful business with your sister you've been spending a lot of time with Mycroft. Getting closer too, it seems. I can't see how you have _any_ energy left for this mysterious boyfriend of yours." She shook her head sadly, taking a sip of her tea. "Unless…?" She quirked an eyebrow at him.

It was a good thing that Sherlock had yet to partake of his tea. His jaw dropped open for a moment before he remembered to shut it again. "I… Excuse me?"

"You know exactly what I mean, Sherlock Holmes."

"Whatever would have given you that idea?"

"I notice you're not denying it. You know, most people would be quite upset at what I'm suggesting."

Sherlock looked at her in bewilderment, setting his teacup down with a clang of porcelain. "Alright, Mrs Hudson. How the hell did you figure it out?"

"Well, I didn't really, not until you just told me." She sipped her tea with a smug air around her as Sherlock groaned, putting his head in his hands and mumbling about being bested by a London landlady.

Raising his head again, he shot her a wary look. "And?" He asked.

"And nothing, I suppose, except you probably shouldn't play that music for John again. It gave the entire thing away! Honestly, I don't know how John didn't see it. The looks on your faces were remarkable."

"You're…okay with it? Mycroft and I?" He enquired again, in stunned disbelief.

"Well, I've suspected it for a few months now, so I've had time to think about it. I even went to the library to read up on incest, can you believe it? At the end of the day, I can't see why exactly I should disapprove, or what it'll change anyway. You're both adults. Of course, the fact that he's your brother does make it rather kinky, doesn't it?" She laughed. "I was only confused by the fact that you boys could never stop arguing, and that Mycroft didn't seem to have any feelings. I just didn't see how it worked, not until I heard your music today. You wrote it for each other, didn't you?"

Sherlock nodded. "He wrote his piece first. I'm just working on the violin accompaniment to it."

"Oh, it was so lovely. So romantic. Why, if someone had written that for me.. ooh!" She fanned herself.

"Written what for who, Mrs Hudson?" Lestrade clattered through the open door, his solid policeman boots clomping harshly on the floor. "Hi, Sherlock."

He straightened in his chair. "Lestrade. Mrs Hudson was just talking about something she had seen on television, I think. I wasn't paying attention." He cut his gaze towards her.

"Oh, yes. Don't mind me. I'll just get out of your way." She got up, patting Sherlock's cheek before she left. Sherlock kissed her hand, squeezing it before he let her go.

A silence descended as the door clicked close behind her. Lestrade fidgeted where he stood before venturing gamely, "Picking up a new instrument?" He tilted his head towards the piano.

"No, it's for Mycroft. He's helping me with something." Sherlock got up, striding towards Lestrade. "Do you have a case for me?"

"Er, yeah. But before that." He stalled for a moment. "Listen, I wanted to apologise for being an arse recently. It wasn't fair to blame you for what Mycroft did, or to say what I did at Christmas. I was very upset, and drunk. But that's no excuse. So. I'm sorry."

Sherlock shrugged. "You've done me a favour, actually. I've come to rather like having less police work. Attracting the attention of one Moriarty's enough for a lifetime, I think. So you can stick to what you've been doing. Now, what's this case?"

"Well, now I feel like it's not worth your time. Really, it was just an excuse to drop by."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Would you just give me the file." He plucked it from Lestrade's hand. After a few minutes, he lifted his eyes from the page. "Wow, George. Really?"

Lestrade ran his hand over his hair sheepishly. "Yeah, I know. We're almost there, too, I think, but it'll be quicker if you help us."

"It's the husband. Wife's having an affair with his mistress. Goodbye." He shoved the file back into Lestrade's hand before he went into his kitchen.

"Wait, what? How'd you know?"

***

"Yes, Minister, the requested approvals will be with your office by ten a.m. tomorrow morning. Yes, I understand." Mycroft rolled his eyes as he opened his front door, letting the man on the other end of the line natter on distantly as he shed his coat.

Holding his phone back up to his ear, he resumed his stride towards his home office, glancing into the rooms along the way. Sherlock never waited for him in the same place when he was due to visit, if he did deign to wait. There was no sign of him just yet.

That is, not until he came within view of his office door, and in view of the soles of Sherlock's shoes, attached to feet that were currently propped up on his table. Sherlock merely quirked a brow at him in greeting as he reclined in his chair.

Mycroft approached him, dropping his briefcase next to the table before he pushed Sherlock's feet off the table, placing himself there instead. Sherlock moved to enclose him between his legs, running his hands soothingly up and down his thighs. After a few more moments where the nattering did not seem to be coming to a natural conclusion, Mycroft interrupted, just as Sherlock started to undo his waistcoat. "Respectfully, Sir, there is nothing more that you or I could do at this moment to, as you call it, speed up the process. In any event, I have made it clear to you when you can expect your documents, and I am led to believe that this would be well within the timeline you had presented to me. I see no need to have my staff work through the night on an urgent basis, or to delay my dinner appointment any longer. If you have any other business that needs attending to, please contact my office. Goodnight."

Hanging up, he put the phone down before he combed his fingers through Sherlock's hair. "Hello, you. My apologies for that."

"I don't know how you deal with the goldfish all day, everyday." Sherlock placed his hands against the warmth of Mycroft's torso, pulling himself closer. "I might have been tempted to give you a blowjob had it gone on for much longer."

"Now I find myself hoping that he calls back." He bent to give Sherlock a kiss. "But we'll put a pin in it. Have you been waiting long?"

"A couple of hours. Chef caught me on the way in and was very excited to hear we'd be having dinner tonight. Apparently we have three courses of French to look forward to."

"Really? What's the occasion?"

"Fresh produce? New recipe? I don't know. I started to wander around my mind palace as he was describing the different pâtés he'd made. There's probably a menu in the kitchen."

"Well, we should have a look. I'll join you in the kitchen after I've shed some layers, since you've made me dishevelled."

Mycroft came back to the kitchen, where there was a dining table already set for two. Sherlock was pulling a board out of the fridge. Noticing his entrance, he tilted his head towards the table. "First course, pâté three ways. Thank God all we have to do is pull food out of different places." He rolled his eyes. Setting the board down, he took his seat next to Mycroft.

As they started eating, Sherlock said, "I had an interesting conversation with Mrs Hudson this afternoon. She knows about us."

Mycroft paused, with his food halfway to his mouth. He put the cracker back on the plate. "You don't seem too upset."

"Neither was she. Apparently, she's suspected for months. The performance earlier sealed it for her."

"Did John say anything?"

"No. I chased him out soon after you left. He was going on about some date he had tonight."

"At least our discretion isn't totally hopeless."

"The woman's even better than our mother was at tracking my movements. If I wanted to find someone I wouldn't use a bloodhound, I'd just set Mrs Hudson on the case. Anyway, there's nothing to worry about."

"Maybe not with Mrs Hudson, which still… she's an impressive lady. But my concern still stands that we may have to be more discreet going forward."

Sherlock chewed on his lip. "I was actually thinking about moving in."

Mycroft stared at him for all of five seconds before he spoke. "I would love nothing more than to have you here, brother mine, but I can't see how it could work, seeing as you work out of Baker Street. There's also the little matter of public perception that we were just discussing."

"I've been doing less detective work recently and it agrees with me, so why not? I'll be keeping Baker Street for that, and some of my less sensitive experiments. Anyway, this place is big enough for us to share separate quarters, for anyone curious. Isn't this what people do when they get older? Live more sensibly?" Sherlock shrugged. He hooked his calf around Mycroft's. "Besides, isn't it nice to come home and find me here?"

"Of course it is." Mycroft paused for a moment. "Well, this may change things. I've started to hand over more things to Anthea now, the smaller matters that she is now capable of dealing with by herself. It'll take a while, but free me up considerably. Do you still think it such a good idea? After all, it would mean that we would be in each other's space a lot more. What if you get tired of having me around all the time?"

"It's never been enough time, Mycroft. We have so much of it to make up for. I want more than stealing days and weekends together. I want to live with you, brother mine, not just in the sense of a shared home, but to _live_ , and not feel like I'm just spending my life waiting for the next stolen moment."

Touched, Mycroft took his hand and placed a soft kiss on the back of it. He scanned Sherlock's face, finding nothing but sincerity and determination. "I wouldn't have the heart to deny you that, my love." He tugged on Sherlock's hand, motioning for him to settle on his lap. They spent several minutes cuddling, just quietly enjoying each other's closeness for the moment until Mycroft remembered that they were supposed to be having dinner.

"I fear our entrees may be ruined by now. Should we go have a look?"

"It's duck confit, brother mine, and started late at that. It could sit in the oven for another hour and still be perfect."

"Good. Let's stay here for a while longer, then, before we discuss arrangements for your move. Wait, how did you know about the cooking of duck confit?"

"I didn't. Chef gave us instructions on the back of the menu."

Mycroft chuckled, before kissing Sherlock. "I love you."

Sherlock thought about all the changes he would need to make to the house: an expanded wardrobe, a suitable room to be built into a laboratory, getting rid of those ghastly horse things in the gym…and those were just the essential ones. "Yes, I really hope you do," he responded, before he set to distracting Mycroft thoroughly. Or putting him in an amenable mood. He was confident that whatever form of persuasion or subversion he required, his present tactic of kissing him senseless would accomplish it.

***

At the end of his next case consulting for the police, Sherlock offhandedly mentions his new living situation to Lestrade. “By the way, you'll have to call ahead before dropping by Baker Street in the future. I'm moving out, but it'll still be my rooms for consultation. And some science."

"Moving out? Where? Why?"

Sherlock tapped on his phone, before Lestrade's phone buzzed. "I've texted you the address. Please don't drop by unless you're actively dying."

Lestrade looked at the message from Sherlock before lifting his eyes in shock. "Kensington? How did you afford _that_?"

Sherlock stared at him. "I come from an aristocratic family, George. Surely you must know this. Anyway, I'm surprised you don't recognise the address. I'm moving in with Mycroft."

" _What_?" He exclaimed, taking another look at the address. "I think I would remember that. Did he buy it recently? And why the hell are you moving in with Mycroft?!"

"Technically, the house is mine as well. It's part of the family estate, and Mycroft's used it as a base since he came to London. Though I suppose, for a brief period he lived elsewhere with you. The place is big enough for the both of us." He shrugged. "I wanted a change and Mycroft's willing to share. That's all there is to it."

"You think you can share a house with Mycroft without the police being called. Mate, he's not going to be as cool with body parts in the fridge as John was. Nobody is."

"Why do you think I'm keeping Baker Street? It'll be fine. Laters."

"Hey!" Lestrade shouted as Sherlock walked into the street, a cab miraculously appearing in front of him. "I wasn't done!" He yelled as the car sped away.

Quietly ensconced in the back of the cab, Sherlock took a breath. Finally. With any luck, that would be the last knot to disentangle Lestrade from his life with Mycroft. Of course, there was still the matter of the divorce to take effect, but there was nothing for it but to wait for the separation period to run out. Though he had marked the date in his calendar, he didn't need to take it out to know that only a few months were left, and that Anthea was more than capable of making the necessary paperwork happen.

Sherlock leaned back, closing his eyes. He smiled to himself as he envisioned the quieter life he had now set himself up for, one where he could take waking up next to Mycroft for granted, where he could exist in their safe space in perpetuity, without having to be constantly on guard for the people he had allowed to just walk through his front door. To just exist in his life without a mask. Yes, the respite would suit him very well indeed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Um, too much talking? Or do you guys like reading this sort of minutiae of relationship developments? Let me know, it's been a long ride!


	10. Chapter 10

A few months later, Sherlock opens his front door to a clearly drunk Lestrade. "Greg, it's two in the fucking morning."

He pushes his way inside and Sherlock waves away the security that Greg did not notice.

"MYCROFT!" He yells. "MYCROFT!"

"Will you keep your fucking voice down!" Sherlock hisses. "Mycroft isn't home. Here, drink this." He pushes a glass of water into Lestrade's hand. "All of it. Do _not_ puke on the rug."

"Not home?" He says between gulps. "But you were going to meet him for dinner!"

"Really. Eavesdropping aside, have you never known my brother to cancel plans at the last minute?"

Greg grumbles and rests his head on the cool counter, glass half empty.

"Drink the bloody water, Griffin."

Greg stares blearily at Sherlock, who sighs. "Why are you here, Greg? Your relationship with Mycroft has been over for years. What could you possibly want from him now?"

"Just… it was so sudden, you know?" His grip tightened on the glass. "I thought we were fine. I thought we were happy, that _he_ was happy, then the next thing I know he's packed up and left. Over some small issue he gives up on me! Is that how you Holmes' are? Are any of you capable of real love?"

"What does it matter? Are you still hoping to get back together with him? Even after how he's treated you?"

"Of course it bloody matters! I just… I don't know why everyone leaves, Sherlock. Did you know the divorce papers came today?"

"Yes. By everyone, do you mean the two people in recent memory that you have been romantically involved with?"

Greg shoots him a glare. _Obviously_.

Sherlock sighs, rolling his eyes. "Two points of data cannot be extrapolated to 'everyone'. Go out and date, Lestrade. Get more data, and we can revisit your hypothesis. Until then, you're just whining in my kitchen for no good reason. Come, I'll put you in the guest suite. You may as well sleep here."

Greg is silent for a few moments as he attempts to parse Sherlock's meaning in his drunken state. Sighing, he gets up to follow Sherlock. "Thanks, Sherlock. I know I've been shit to you recently, but you're a good mate…sometimes."

"Not really, no. I'm just half-awake and have no desire to call a cab with a potentially murderous cabbie when there's a perfectly good bed here. It would make for a particularly unexciting murder. Get in. The ensuite is to your left. I'll see you in the morning."

***

Greg wakes with a jerk at an unfamiliar sound, his heart pounding as he takes in his surroundings. The night before comes flooding back to his mind, at the same time it registers that he's got a hell of a hangover. Groaning, he lets his head fall back to his pillow. His heart gives a slight pang when he recognises the feel of the million-count sheets against his cheek. It seems Mycroft doesn't provide his guests with any less comfort than he'd expect, which under different circumstances he would appreciate. Right now, though, it's way too much muddle to wade through.

In socked feet, he ambles his way towards the kitchen, the smell of coffee in the air drawing his attention. Ah, that must be what the sound was. Dimly, he registers the sound of two familiar voices.

"I should be going, darling, before he wakes up. Bring him his coffee, would you? And the paracetamol."

"Aren't you just so attentive, brother dear."

"Don't be daft, it's just basic courtesy for a houseguest. Don't tell me you're jealous. You're the one who offered him a bed."

"Only because you were too lazy to attend to him yourself!"

"How was I supposed to know he was here for me? Besides, after what you did to me, I couldn't be raised for Queen nor country, much less a surprise visitor. Really, it was the least you could do after edging me all goddamn night, and believe me, I will get my revenge."

Greg's feet remained rooted to the spot in shock, as the conversation trailed off into low grumbles before there were unmistakeable sounds of kissing emanating from the kitchen. He let out an involuntary squeak, before slapping a hand over his mouth. _Busted. Shit. What the fuck. What. The. Fuck._ The kissing stopped abruptly, followed by firm footsteps in his direction after a moment's pause. _OhGodwhatthebloodyfuck_.

"Good morning, Detective Inspector. Some coffee first, I think, then we'll talk." Mycroft fixed him with a stern look that would ordinarily brook no arguments, and even more so if you were nursing a hangover. Mutely, Greg followed.

As Greg sat down, Mycroft said, "Sherlock, please keep the Inspector company while I cancel my morning. I should be no longer than a half hour."

***

Striding away, Mycroft quickly tapped out a message.

_Please don't antagonise him. The plan was going so well. - MH_

_I'm not an idiot. - SH_

_No need to be snippy. I love you. - MH_

_I love you too. - SH_

Sherlock and Greg eyed each other warily, as Mycroft's footsteps faded away. Coffee drained, pills taken, Greg shifted nervily in his seat. Looking up, he found Sherlock tapping away on his phone. With an exasperated huff, he said, "Alright. I'm possibly awake enough for an explanation. So tell me what the fuck is going on here?"

Sherlock's eyes darted up, piercing him to his seat. "Surely you've heard enough to deduce that for yourself."

"I…Deducing something isn't the same as a confession."

"Confession, Detective Inspector? Are you charging me with something?"

"Christ, no! Oh, hell. _You're fucking Mycroft_?"

"Hmm. Yes, that's an accurate deduction. Well done." Sherlock drawled.

"But he's your brother. Not to mention that that makes it illegal, but I've let you off for greater crimes before so that's not really what concerns me. _Mycroft?_ "

"Yes. And so?"

Greg rubbed his eyes. _Christ on a trampoline._ "Ok, you've never been the most normal of blokes, but even you have to know that's not normal or acceptable. Not to mention that it raises a whole bunch of other questions about _my_ relationship with him."

"When have I ever cared about what's normal or acceptable?"

"Sure, but Mycroft does."

Sherlock shrugged. "Clearly he doesn't."

Growling, Greg pounded his fist on the table before getting up to pace the kitchen. "Do you have to make everything so bloody difficult? When did this start?"

"According to Mycroft, I've been making things difficult since I was born." Rolling his eyes, he added, "As to your real question, it started a few months after that business with my sister. Pedophilia is not on our list of sins."

"But that's… that's right about when he broke up with me." His eyes flashed. "Mycroft cheated on me? With you, his brother?!"

"Which part of that bothers you more?" Sherlock asked with a raised eyebrow.

"Lockie, must you always be so combative?" Striding back into the room, Mycroft gave his brother's hair a firm tug in warning as he took a seat next to him. Turning his attention, he said in his signature cool, steady tone, "Inspector, our sexual relationship did not commence until after I notified you that I would be seeking a divorce. I was led to understand that physical intimacy with another person would have been perceived as a betrayal. Hence, I terminated our relationship."

"You…what? You never said it was because you wanted to fuck someone else!"

"Well, I thought the reason I gave you was less hurtful, by comparison."

"You made it sound like there was a problem with me. I understand you couldn't have told me that you were ending the relationship to be with Sherlock, but you could have the decency to tell me it was because you found someone else. The real reason."

With a great huff, Sherlock interjected. "This conversation is utterly pointless. Please get to one before I lose my mind."

"My _point_ ," Greg gritted out, "is that when people get married, they make a promise to be there for the rest of their lives. They don't just bolt when things get tough. They work for it. People _in love_ work for it. Why the fuck did you marry me, Mycroft, if you weren't going to put in the effort? Did you ever love me?"

"I do not love you now, and so I will not be putting in any effort. The relationship is thus at its end with no hope for reconciliation. I ended the relationship for a reason that I calculated would cause you the least hurt, and yet still truthful. Given your history, "finding someone else" would not have served the purpose.

"You may take comfort in the knowledge that it was a matter of fundamental incompatibility, as I had explained to you. If there is fault to be ascribed to the dissolution of this marriage, it may be placed on both our heads, or if you prefer, solely on mine. Your only mistake was in thinking I was anything but wholly rational in the conduct of my affairs. I would apologise if it would help, but it seems pointless to apologise for one's nature."

"You… _Ugh_!" Greg pounded his fist on the table in frustration. "I don't know how I fell in love with a cold-hearted sodding bastard." After several moments of silence, Greg huffed. "I'll have the divorce papers couriered to you today. I never want to see your face again, unless Sherlock is actively dying. Send Anthea for any work-related stuff. I'm done."

Mycroft nodded. "As you wish. And I trust you will not breathe a word about my relationship with Sherlock."

"Oh, the big and mighty Mycroft Holmes needs a favour now?" Greg sneered. "No, I won't go blabbing, if only because you are a menace to the population and it's better for everyone if you are out of the dating pool. Sherlock can very well fend for him-fucking-self and good luck with that."

"Very well. I wish you the best, Detective Inspector. I think I will take my leave for the office now, but please feel free to stay for some breakfast. The cook should be around somewhere."

As Mycroft got up, Sherlock gripped on to his hand, a forbidding look in his eyes. _You have got to be kidding me. You are bloody well staying._

Mycroft raised an eyebrow. _I cannot. Not if he is here._ He flipped his hand in Sherlock's grasp, caressing the back of his hand. _I love you. I will see you later._

This silent conversation ran on for a few more moments, but when Greg saw Mycroft give Sherlock an indulgent smile, one that he had never been the recipient of, he finally said, "No, I'll get out of here. It's your house, and I've a job to get to. Give me a moment to get my shoes and I'll let myself out."

Tearing his eyes away, Sherlock nodded at him. "Thank you, Greg."

"Uh, yeah, sure. Whatever."

***

It was another ten minutes before the brothers heard the front door click shut behind Lestrade. Learning from their mistake, they had sat silently together, one of Sherlock's hands clasped between two of Mycroft's, while the other stroked at Mycroft's temple.

Mycroft broke the silence. "Well, that went about as well as could have been expected."

Sherlock hummed his agreement. "I'm glad that's done and over with. His pining was driving me slowly insane."

Mycroft smirked. "You _were_ jealous."

"You're _mine_ , brother. I have had enough of sharing you with Lestrade. All mine now."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am very sorry-not-sorry for flooding y'all with Holmescest this week. I just couldn't stop writing.
> 
> This story was my first multi-chapter fic and it was a tough one from my perspective, but I write it for all of you who have stuck around and loved it despite its flaws. Thank you, thank you for all of the amazing comments. It has kept me and this fic going.
> 
> Now that we have reached the end....what do you think? ;) 
> 
> Also, if you're interested you can find me on [Tumblr](http://fleetingdesires.tumblr.com). I'll try to be active on it, and at the least you'll be able to see a little bit of what's coming up in the pipeline, and talk to me etc. 
> 
> Love y'all! x


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